He was my king
by Ketch117
Summary: Book 4. After many grueling months of preparation, the Varden are at last beginning their invasion the Empire. But the work of a century is not so easily overturned, and they soon find that the world is not the simple place they once believed it to be...
1. Revelations to the dead

**Disclaimer**

**I don't own Eragon. If I did, this would be published.**

**Prologue.**

Two figures dragged the old man into the cell between them. Galbatorix didn't deign to turn. He made the man wait. After all, he was king, and the man was only alive at his sufferance. After nearly minute he decided to take interest.

He smiled as he turned, although there was no humor in his dark eyes, and nodded.

For an all-powerful authority, trust was a difficult commodity, and not to be squandered where it was found. He could make people do anything, but it was preferable not to have to use force. When they served you of their own free will, they were worthy of trust. Slaves would resist when possible.

The two figures released their grip on the prisoner, kicking him as he sank to his knees so he sprawled across the cold stones of the cell door. There was no fight left in the old man. He barely had the strength to hold his head up. He had been beaten repeatedly and tortured to the extremes of what his body could survive. It was so like the cowards at the Varden to send an old man to do their dirty work.

"So are you ready to talk? Or must we continue with all this unsavory nonsense? We both know the outcome, so why subject yourself to the pain? You will tell me what I want to hear. You always do. Part of being human, no threshold for pain."

The old man lifted his head, his bleary, unfocused eyes meeting the kings dark ones. "I have nothing to say to you."

Galbatorix sighed. "Very well. Zakath, would you kindly remind our guest of his manners?"

The figure backhanded the man across the face, splitting his already swollen lip. Blood ran into his beard.

"Thank you Zakath. Now, perhaps we can dispense with this charade. You are a spy for the Varden, passing information about the dispersal of my forces and the state of things in my court. Not only that, but three days ago you attempted to kill Lord Meric. The attempt was amateurish, as is only to be expected, but in a way that's just as well for you. Had you not been so incompetent in your attempt, you and me would be having a very different talk."

"Why don't you kill me and have done with it?" The old man spat, a tooth coming loose and falling out of his mouth as he did so. His split lip leant his words a lisp, and he was already tremoring from exhaustion and pain. There was still defiance in his eyes, but it was tempered with defeat. The man was already broken.

"I could," the king conceded. He circled the old man, moving slowly, eying him as though sizing up an animal for purchase. "But all things in their time, eh? Besides, as a spy your head must be filled with such interesting truths, and it would be a tragedy to throw them away. Act in haste, repent at leisure, no?"

"What would you have me tell you, monster? That your people love you? That you are worshipped? Adored? You are not. Believe me when I say you are hated by even the meanest peasant. Your 'kingdom' is only fit for robber barons, beggars and fools. It is held together by fear, but only barely. Now it is breaking apart. You are not loved. You are a forgotten shadow, not a ruler. By not taking action you have lost whatever legitimacy, whatever shreds of loyalty the people once had for you. You have let your enemies liberate your lands all but unopposed, and shown yourself for the coward you are. You are of no consequence, nothing more then a pale shadow. People look to their lords for leadership, and the lords don't spare you a thought."

"Fascinating." Galbatorix replied, seeming quite unaffected by the old mans tirade. "Is that what you intended to tell Nasuada? Or that bastard Eragon?"

"I will tell both of them the truth, that you are a trapped rat out of options, and the scum is rising to the surface, as it always does. That everywhere in your empire there is anarchy, disorder, and corruption. That the streets crumble while the parasites suck the lifeblood from the people, that the peasants despise their lords and their lords despise you, that you are loathed for the exorbitant rents you demand from them in return for their own lands, and the conscription of their families to your 'grand army'. Oh I could tell them all that and so much more."

"Really? Do go on."

"I will tell them your so-called court is infested with sharks that would feast on your blood. That Urû'baen is a pit of liars, murderers and thieves, and worst of all backstabbing sycophants who whisper sweet nothings in your ear while plotting behind your back. That you are universally loathed, and you are a fool for believing they love you."

"You are indeed enlightened." Galbatorix replied, his own grin matching the spies. "But so very, very wrong. Yes they would see me dead, it is human nature to seek out weakness and exploit it. Yet they have not brought me down, as you will no doubt tell them too. This empire is mine by right of strength, and none can dispute it. I am king, and Rider. I do not simply call myself such, as others do. And they are responsible for the starvation, not me. People suffer in wartime, and when have I saught war? I even allowed Surda it's freedom. A tyrant, perhaps. But a fair one."

The old man chuckled again, but the king continued pacing, ignoring the old man. "This is my kingdom, I can do as I will. And no matter how much any of them hate me, they fear me far more, whatever you think. The Varden are outnumbered, out-maneuvered and out-generaled. When this storm blows over I will still be on my throne, even more strongly entrenched then before. And even if by some mirical they did succeed, what difference would it make? This empire has existed as long as there have been humans, and will continue forever. The Empire goes on, my clever friend, no matter who runs it, and you can no more stop it then kill me."

"You are not fit to lead the Empire, mad king."

Galbatorix shrugged again. "Mad? All kings are mad. It's the only way to cope with the power, with being constantly alone. Am I mad because I see what I want and take it? Am I mad because I do not allow what other people think prevent my own ambitions? Is it a madman who has brought this kingdom from a state of constant warfare and terror into civilization? Mad? I think not."

"I tell you only what I see. If you do not like it, then all you can do is kill me."

Gallbatorix shook his head. "Come now, we both know that's not true. I could break open your mind and take what I wanted. I could make you serve me as I did to Eragon's Half-Brother, and make you dance like a puppet on my string. I could give you back to my torturers and let them practice their art some more. I've kept you alive for three days. I could keep it up for years. Decades, if I so chose. Do not underestimate the torments I can devise and inflict if I feel the need. Now, tell me about your about the people you left behind. Tell me about your insignificant rebellion."

The old mans head dropped. He lapsed into silence.

"Oh do speak up while you can, my stubborn friend. This farce has ceased to be amusing."

"I am no traitor."

"Not yet, but you will be before the sun rises tomorrow, if that's any consolation. By the time we're done, I have no doubt I'll be sick of the sound of your voice." He stopped pacing, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade. "Sicker, anyway."

"I will tell you nothing. Do your worst."

Galbatorix met his eye for a second, the gestured to Zakath. The figure drew his sword, a blade of bone with a skeletal dragon carved into the hilt, and placed it against the spies left ear.

The old man screamed as the figure removed his ear with a single, smooth stroke. Blood flowed freely through his fingers as he clutched the ruined hole on the side of his head. He didn't stop screaming as the figure took the severed ear and squeezed it to a pulpy mess, then threw the remaining leaking ruin aside.

Galbatorix resumed his pacing, his slow, measured footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor. "Now where were we? Oh yes, you were telling me nothing I didn't already know. You were reminding me that those around me are untrustworthy. How I have surrounded myself with fools and traitors and those who are loyal now could be traitors tomorrow. How I have bought loyalty through fear and fear inspires treachery. Please, don't insult us both. I have been running this empire for over a hundred years; I have the measure of everyone in court. I know them better then they know themselves. You speak in vagaries meant to inspire paranoia. I am nobodies fool. How does anyone know whom to trust or whom to kill? Tell me that, and then, when you are done, tell me all about the Varden. Tell me what little ploy you have put your hopes in now."

The old man slumped against the wall, his bloody hand pressed up against the side of his head. Dredging up strength from the recesses of his soul he found the strength to remain silent. Instead he spat at the king.

Galbatorix stopped again. "Must we take this to its logical conclusion? I had hoped you would see sense before I ran out of patience, but evidently I was wrong."

With that Zakath rammed his sword trough the man's back until it emerged through his ribcage. Blood pumped through the ragged wound, at first in a huge gush that dwindled as shock set in. The old man gibbered through the pain, his eyes glazed over. It was doubtful a single coherent word would escape his lips before his body finally succumbed to shock, and he died. His arms convulsed as his muscles contracted, and his lips moved as sounds gurgled out of his lips.

And then it was over, the old man dead, his secrets taken with him to the grave.

Galbatorix shook his head. "What a waste. He died to preserve secrets I already knew." Zakath sheathed his sword as the king spoke, not bothering to wipe it clean, then inclined his head.

"Waste not." Galbatorix said quietly. "Drop this off in the cavern, will you? Shuriken has begun to develop a taste for human flesh." Grasping the corpse under the armpits, the other figure turned and departed back into the shadows of the catacombs, dragging the corpse behind it.

"Walk with me." The king said, turning and leaving the dungeons. Zakath fell into step beside him, his mail surcoat clinking like blood money changing hands, the red wool of his cloak swishing against the plain stone of the floor.

The pair wandered the labyrinthine halls beneath the citadel, working their way slowly back above the ground. Eventually the shadowy murk gave way to the grey halls, and they emerged into the lower levels of the citidel. As they walked, Galbatorix turned to survey Zakath. The lower half of his face was covered by red cloth, masking all his features below his eyes. That which could be seen was framed with long maroon braids. What skin that could be seen was grey, like a corpse that had been left to rot underwater, and his red eyes flickered with bestial cunning. His long fingers rested on his blade, as he waited for instruction with the easy patience of a born predator. He would wait all day or all week, it made no difference.

"I have another task for you," the king said at last as they made their way up a spiral staircase towards the keep, his voice as calm and emotionless as the ocean.

"Lord Kantor has finally seceded to the enemy. I do not want to end the war so soon, but neither do I want the Varden to get too powerful. Replace him. You will find him on his estate, near Belatona. Give his heir the usual choice." The shade nodded his head once and departed. The king watched him go for a second, and then resumed the climb of the staircase, loosing himself in his own mind.

He thought briefly of the old spy, and shook his head. The man was a fool. There were close to twenty spies in the citadel at all times, each of them hoping to find the kings secrets. Galbatorix had long since isolated them all, and controlled them all the more powerfully in that they didn't even know it. Every scrap of information they found he gave them, and through this he controlled what his enemies thought of him. Controlling knowledge was important. And then the old man had found something out he shouldn't have, and tried to kill one of the few people in the castle Galbatorix actually needed.

He shook his had as he thought again, this time about the people the man had given his life for. The Varden were useful to the Empire. They helped keep it united, and served to isolate the discontent and rebellious from the rest. It was a pity they couldn't have simply remained that way, but they were suffering from delusions of power and sought to attempt to topple him. Why not try to overthrow the very gods too?

Even so, they were still useful. A rebellion served to cut the weakness and corruption from his empire, much as a chirgeon used a scalpel to remove infection. And it gave him the window he needed to institute changes. He was a king, but forcing people to change seldom has any lasting effect. They must be willing to change. Even total power had to be exercised with caution.

He chuckled darkly. The Varden thought to overthrow him and return peace. They were fools. Change is not so easily undone. The work of a century takes a long time to die. Even if they overthrew him tomorrow, things would never be the way they were again. And he had no intention of dying anytime soon, come what may.

The Varden. They called themselves freedom fighters, but they didn't even realize what that was. They were fools who held on to their idea of an idealized world that had never existed, and held him to blame for every ail they could imagine. They had made him into a beacon, a focal point for every wrong in the world. If they could but see as he did.

Finally he thought of Eragon, but briefly. His enemies had staked all their hopes on one rider, little more then a boy, who had received only customary training. No doubt it was an interesting study into the art of self-delusion, but a far cry from a threat. He had personally killed more Riders then he could be bothered remembering, and Eragon would be given one last chance to join him before becoming another notch on his sword. He was beginning to stop caring about controlling a second generation of riders.

Eragon. The very name was ironic. _Rebirth_, it meant in the old elvish tongue, before they discovered the ancient language. An ironic name for a boy dedicated to restoring the past. Apparently the Varden's hero, and a rebel. Galbatorix thought of his own past and chuckled. At first he'd seen similarities but time had eroded them. The boy was a pale mirror.

Galbatorix continued to the throne room, crossed the length and opened a door leading to his personal chambers behind the throne. Taking a moment to appreciate the austere simplicity, he relaxed, removing his sword and walking over to the window, where he spread his arms and looked up at the clear sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

**So there we are. Please review, because this is a long story and I need all the advice I can get. Plus, you know, encourages me to write.**


	2. An Ordained meeting

**Disclaimer**

**Given that my writing style has at best a superficial similarity to Paolini's, you'd think people would guess that Inheritence was not mine.**

**Chapter 1**

Murtagh strolled through the passageways of Urû'baen citadel, a slight swagger in his steps concealing the anxiety that was consuming his thoughts. He was not looking forward to this. Meeting with the king was never pleasant, and in light of his recent failure…

Sensing his worry through their bond, Thorn sent a wave of comforting emotion, which Murtagh received gratefully, sending back a few wordless assurances. He smiled slightly at the gesture, but it failed to abate his worry. Thorn was just as nervous as him.

The servants all jumped out of his way and averted their eyes as he passed, just as terrified of him as they were the kings more 'colorful' minions. At first this had been profoundly off-putting, but he was gradually retraining himself not to see servants.

He'd been with Thorn in the caverns, keeping his dragon company and discussing how to relay the events of his engagement with the elvish rider when the King demanded his report. He knew it was not necessary, that the king knew what had happened better then he himself, but Galbatorix wanted to hear it from him. And Murtagh, the unwilling slave, would answer the call at his king's request. It wasn't as though he had a choice. He'd even tried to refuse, but had been physically incapable of doing so. It was maddening.

Thorn was yet to recover from the injuries the bigger dragon had dealt him, and spent his time lying motionless, conserving his strength. Even with a team of spell casters gradually patching the damage, his tail would still take the better part of a year to grow back, and until then it would be unsafe to fly, as Thorn would have trouble steering. He'd miss it, the flying. They both would. Flying with Thorn was one of his life's few pleasures. But he was also relieved. Without Thorn, he was functionally useless to the king, and there was no point in forcing him to fight the Varden. For the moment, his brother was safe. He was unsure about what he thought of Eragon, but anything that hurt Galbatorix was fine by him.

As he followed the passages towards the keep, the hall widened, and the rooms became smaller and closer placed. Hangings and tapestries appeared on the walls, a long rug carpeted the hallway, windows became more common and the occasional statue or sculpture decorated alcoves. For the most part that was the extent of the change, Galbatorix having little interest in superficialities, and the majority of his court following his example, if reluctantly. In truth, there seemed little to differentiate this area as the realm of the privileged.

Taking a few more turns and a stairway, he came at last to the massive, oaken doors that led the way to the central keep. With a portcullis and hinges thicker then his forearm, these doors could withstand a siege from inside the castle were it necessary. It was also the only room in the citadel that was carpeted, thick strings of cotton braided in an intricate series of knots. It was beautiful, in its way, but inexplicable. It certainly wasn't a sign of wealth, but neither did it see to serve any noticeable purpose.

As usual, the passage was totally deserted. It always was, no one was allowed to come here without the king's permission. When he was young and still living with his father he had met a few boys his age and been dared to sneak in to Galbatorix's tower. When he had tried he had made it halfway up the corridor before a spell had caught him and held him in place, keeping him unable to so much as blink until his father had found him hours later. It had earned him the biggest thrashing he had received until that point, and had imbued these silent doors with a terrifying mystique that clung to him even this day.

Taking a deep breath he walked up and pushed them open, making his way into the grey, drab corridors beyond, if anything more austere then the corridors he'd just left.

Many wondered about what the rooms beyond the doorway held. Very few had ever been allowed in, and those that had seldom saw more then the throne room and perhaps a few others that they caught glimpses of. But it was a huge tower, and there was a lot of space unaccounted for. Rumors flew amongst both the nobility and the servants alike about the contents, ranging from a personal harem to a vast dungeon where he kept his greatest enemies, to a great school where he and other philosophers discussed great things mere mortals couldn't comprehend without years of study. Others maintained it was a vast treasury containing room after room of gold and jewels, while others claimed it was a place to house the monsters that he had brought under his control.

Murtagh didn't have the heart to tell them that most of the rooms were empty. The top floor consisted of his private quarters, which Murtagh had never seen, nor knew where to look for, and the Throne room. The first five floors contained nothing of interest, simply blank space and storage for some basic commodities, such as grain and steel the king stored there, for reasons known only to himself.

The sixth floor was a massive room the size of a hall devoted to obstinately for training, but seemed to Murtagh to be more of a place to hold the trophies of his victories. There were over two hundred riders swords in there, as well as trophies from a range of dangerous creatures he'd killed and relics of his conquests. Dragon horns and fangs, skins of exotic, rare or dangerous creatures, articles paid by his greatest cities as tribute that had caught his eye, a range of artworks that predated the Riders and a series of things that Murtagh didn't even know the names of. It was also the room that Galbatorix used when showcasing his swordsmanship. What the king called training would be better described as humbling his opponent beyond any chance of recovering. Murtagh had rarely met his match in swordsmanship, but the king was not simply better, but a different order of being.

The entirety of the next floor was a place to store the books and magic compendiums the king had 'liberated' from the riders, the elves and several libraries once he took power. The king called it a library, but it was no more one then Dras-Leona's so-called cathedral was a place of worship. Both had the trappings of their names, but none of the soul that was so integral to the originals they copied from. They were little more then pale copies. Despite this, Murtagh suspected that every magician in the empire would give what was left of their souls to spend an uninterrupted hour there. It seemed a shame that almost no one ever did get to see the inside, and those that did under heavy supervision.

Then there was the throne room, where the mad king played god. The room was large enough to fit nearly every inhabitant in the castle, and dominated by a great tapestry depicting the entirety of Alagaësia, beneath which sat a great throne of obsidian trimmed with gold on a raised platform. The room was designed to humble petitioners, but it was a wasted effort as few of them got this far. Just the same, it was impressive, and Murtagh could never totally repress the feeling of awe when he found himself standing before the throne.

After coming to the top of the great winding staircase that took him to the peak of the tower, Murtagh breathed deeply a few times to steady his nerves and prepare for the coming ordeal. After a moment to compose himself he pushed open the door and strode confidently into the center of the room.

The throne was empty, the king nowhere to be seen. Leaning on the thrones armrest was a man dressed in a robe reminiscent of a monk, black velvet of the highest quality left plain and unadorned as a bedsheet, with the hood pulled down over his eyes. Turning to face Murtagh he pulled it back and smiled a thin lipped smile. Murtagh glared.

His face was pale from hours of long study, but it was healthy, would even be handsome if not from the perpetual look of bitter cynicism and gaunt, wasted cheeks. The eyes were a deep brown as cold as glass that reflected back what they saw. The black, unadorned robes revealed the stooped and shattered frame of a wreck of a man, scrawny and malnourished, deliberately so. And yet he stood tall and strong, as though daring the world to try and strike him down.

"You just missed him." The magician mocked, his soft, deep voice stretched with just the hint of a lisp. Murtagh recognized him at once. It was a face he knew all to well. It was Tarascus, the kings pet sorcerer and the man assigned to teach him magic. Murtagh hated him with a fervor he usually reserved for the king. It always felt like he was being mocked, though not in any way that he could challenge. But under that hate was the slightest undercurrent of fear. The magician was powerful, and Murtagh did not understand him or his motivations. He was perhaps the greatest mystery in the king's shadowy court.

"Well, then where is he?" Murtagh replied, not bothering to keep the loathing out of his voice. Tarascus knew what he thought of him.

The sorcerer's lips twisted into a mocking smile that did reach the rest of his face. "Your majesty awaits you in his courtyard, if it's not too much trouble." He sneered, his eyes narrowing. "Come." He finished, than turned and swept out of the room, limping only slightly, not bothering to ensure Murtagh followed. He knew he would. However he felt about Tarascus, he feared the king too much to openly attempt defiance. Besides, doing so served no purpose. He couldn't refuse if he tried.

*****

Galbatorix was seated at a small table in the courtyard, enjoying a meal with a tall, striking women, while his manservant stood at his shoulder. The king was a tall, lean man, with a sharp patricians face, hawklike nose and heavy brow, where two dark eyes stared out, seemingly constantly at motion. He was thin as a sabre and hard as a poker, appearing cold and deadly, even in the relaxed atmosphere. He wore dark leather armor despite the obvious casualness of the courtyard, forgoing mail for the greater flexibility it allowed him. His sword was belted on his hip in easy reach, and he would habitually stroke it when thinking.

The women he was eating with was tall and thin, with clothes more suited to a young rake out prowling the taverns to a noble women, despite her station being clear by the way she held herself. Yet the incongruity did nothing to diminish her presence, which rivaled the kings own. She wore knee high boots and red leather breaches that clung to her long legs. A soft whit shirt rose above a silver trimmed belt, that circled her slender waist, that was in turn covered by a black leather chest, the straps unbuckled where the garment constrained the swell of he breast. A heart shaped face rose above this, framed by delicate flaxen locks. Her eyes were like sapphires, beautiful and vibrant, yet harder then steel, and her full lips were pursed.

Seeing Murtagh open his mouth, Galbatorix tilted his head, a clear indication to join them. Murtagh sat at an empty chair, but did not touch the food. Tarascus bowed mockingly, then more respectfully to the king, and turned on his heel, vanishing back into the confines of the tower.

"How did events proceed?" The king enquired politely, setting aside his meal. The food looked delicious, but somehow Murtagh didn't feel like eating. Murtagh didn't reply. Instead he unbuckled the sword on his right hip and dropped it on the table, with a resonating clang. Galbatorix inspected the gold tinted blade he had found near the Rider's carcass critically for a moment, then handed it to his manservant.

Galbatorix rubbed his scalp. "I offered him clemency, I offered him peace. And he spat in my face. I thought him wiser then that, thought he could let go of his hate and see the present. But he was a fool. Just another notch on Zar'Roc now." Murtagh winced at the last part, but was unsure how to reply, or even if he should. He didn't know if the king was lying. He doubted the man honestly cared for peace, but then, all his motives seemed to be inscrutable. He wondered if the man ever acted predictably. He took refuge in silence.

Galbatorix steepled his fingers in front of him and stared at the young Rider, his black eyes boring holes in Murtagh. "So what was it like to kill a legend?"

Murtagh groped for words. "I… I felt…"

The king spoke over him, remaining perfectly still as he did so. "You hated Oromis. You blamed him for your own situation. Surely another Rider could save you, break these bonds I hold you by. Yet he ignored you, left you to suffer."

Murtagh nodded. He didn't see any point in disputing the claim. He felt the anger against the elf welling up in his breast, but he kept it confined.

"Oromis's greatest flaw was is own knowledge. He knew that people could change, but he never understood it. He passed his judgement, and then never changed it, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. He assumed that once you took my side, whatever your initial reasons, you were beyond saving, no matter what you did. If you had thrown down your sword and begged his mercy he would have given no quarter."

"Knew him well did you?" Murtagh sneered at the king.

"He was a member of Vrael's council of three. One of the Riders leaders." Galbatorix replied mildly. "You could say that."

Galbatorix lifted his goblet, the drained its contents in two great gulps. Placing it back down looked up at Murtagh and made a gesture with his left hand.

"So, aside from that unpleasantness, how did the rest of the battle progress? I am well aware that we lost Gil'ead, a messenger killed five horses to tell me such two hours ago. But I would like to hear your summary." Galbatorix said reasonably, setting aside his wooden cutlery and iron goblet, and leaning forward. "Tell me what happened that day."

Murtagh felt like shrugging. The king had ignored him for three days after he had returned, but Murtagh had spent that time with Thorn. He had a vague idea of what to say, but he was unsure how to word it.

"We… we made the elves pay dearly. I estimate there were perhaps a thousand in their army. I believe they lost a sixth of that. Our men died to the last, the elves took no prisoners and there was no retreat."

An odd look came over Galbatorix's face, seeming to contain triumph and disappointment in equal measure. The king sighed gravely, and the look vanished. "Their oaths did not require or demand that. But perhaps it is for the best. Preferable to capture." He sighed running his hand over his scalp. "But so few? Perhaps it is time to take stronger measures." He said in a heavy voice.

He turned to Duncan Halec, his manservant. "Inform lord Meric he is to handle our next offensive. He has whatever resources he wants."

Halec nodded, taking the sword and departing back towards the keep. Galbatorix left his meal half-eaten and stood up, stretching to his impressive height. "Murtagh, son of my friend, this is Lady Silja Isolde." The women had spent the time staring at him, her blue eyes like chips of ice. "Charmed." She said, extending her hand and clasping his wrist in a warrior's handshake.

"We have been discussing the matter of Dras-Leona."

Murtagh blinked. "But how could they besiege it so quickly? The distance involved…"

Galbatorix waited for him to stop, then shook his head. "Of course it isn't. My enemies will leave it alone until after they depose me. The matter is rather more simple." His hand came down to rest on the handle of his sword. "Six months ago I dragged Marcus Tabar of his throne, or more correctly out of the bed he shared with his mistresses, to await execution for crimes against the empire. I told his heir I would not recognize a sovereign of Tabar's blood, and since then a steward has been running things. A decent temporary measure, but this state of affairs cannot continue."

Murtagh blinked again. Surely the king couldn't be so arrogant. "Your majesty, there is a war going on."

"Precisely. What better time to change a dynasty?" Seeing Murtagh's confused look, he sighed loudly in clear annoyance. "Marcus Tabar is a gross incompetent, unfit to lead a backwater village. What's more he is greedy and ineffectual, easily intimidated but fond of bullying those he can, and enjoys exercising his power but is terrified of loosing it. Not the sort of man fit for rulership. And yet I put him in charge of one of the empire's greatest cities. Really I had little to do with it, I just did not oppose his ascension after his father died, despite the fact I was well aware of his incompetence. Why?"

Murtagh looked blank. "Because you don't care?"

Galbatorix shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. "Quite the opposite. Because I do care. The city Dras-Leona has become a breeding ground for every vice and corruption the inhabitant's diseased minds can conceive. Slavery, cannibalism, torture, every form of decadence imaginable. Marcus himself was even rumored to be guilty of incest, among other things. Marcus has single handedly managed to send it backwards hundreds of years in governance and infrastructure. Now it has sunk so low that even the cities inhabitants want it purged."

Murtagh felt even more mystified. "So, why Marcus?"

Galbatorix began pacing. "It was that very incompetence that made him useful. I am a supreme ruler, but I cannot simply replace whom I choose. If I did I would loose the loyalty of the ruling classes and soon find a rebellion on my hands that would make what I face now seem even more insignificant. I rule through their acceptance. If I alienate them I lose their loyalty, and they stop listening to me. Then what? Kill them and make every decision myself? Or be killed by them and leave the Empire in a state of anarchy as each one seeks to expand his borders into his neighbors? No, I cannot simply act as I choose." He was fingering the blade at his side again, his index finger tracing the intricacies of the rune on its hilt.

"No, I needed an indisputable reason, which Marcus provided." Galbatorix continued at last. "After he had all but ruined the city, I would step in and replace him, being hailed a hero in the process, and whoever took his place could make any reforms and changes I wanted under the pretense of restoring the city to it's former glory and casting off the old regime. The war will make it even easier, as people will focus on that instead of what occurs behind the front lines."

Murtagh found himself nodding slowly. It did make a sick kind of sense. "So who takes over?"

Galbatorix stopped pacing and fixed the two of them with an intense stare. "That, son of my friend, is why the two of you are here. At first I thought of you, Murtagh, but I decided against it. Your… talents are of more use to me here then in an administrative position, and once your dragon recovers I will return you to the front lines. And I don't believe I can trust you yet. Fear is a suitable enough motivator, but do I really want you to have so much independence? So I searched through those at court until I found someone suitable. Dras-Leona goes to Lady Silja, along with a few titles and a minor estate in the capital."

Murtagh appraised the women again, his curiosity now afire. "Who exactly is she?"

Silja glared at him, her ice blue eyes narrowing dangerously. No doubt she did not appreciate being ignored, and Murtagh's manner was not exactly endearing. "I am the daughter of a minor baron who's estate borders the Spine. He was granted his title for exemplary service in the kings armies, and maintains a large force to this day. Having no sons he raised me as his heir apparent." She growled, her wide eyes narrowing at Murtagh.

"And you believe she is suitable?" Murtagh asked, still addressing the king directly which prompted another glare from Silja.

"I do. She is loyal to the empire, idealistic and more then a match for those weak blooded nobles at the court. In addition, I believe she has the courage to do what needs to be done. I will give her my full support in any endeavors she believes are necessary."

Silja looked mildly gratified at the complement, but she did not seem to have forgiven Murtagh. Taking he knife she began to stab at the meat on her plate, as though attempting to quarter an enemy.

Murtagh merely nodded, unsure on what was expected of him to say or do. Conversations with the king always left him floundering. The man's brain seemed to work on several levels at once, and he seemed to know every move well in advance that both sides would make in any engagement. It was terrifying, and left people like Murtagh stumbling in his wake.

The king sat back down, but still did not resume his meal. "I would appreciate it if you would take my place at the table tonight. I will be otherwise engaged." He said after a moment, seemingly casual but with an undertone of steel. This was not up for debate.

Murtagh grimaced, but shook his head, well aware that the defiance would cost him, but not willing to simply let the king have his way. He had to maintain his independence, or at least attempt to.

Galbatorix's eyes narrowed, and Murtagh felt a blow against his hastily erected mental defenses. It sent him staggering of his chair, and left him on the tiled floor gasping. "So be it. I order you to take my place at the table tonight. Act as you wish, but let it slip to Lord Gurney that I am appointing my mistress dominion over Dras-Leona." The king said, the veneer of casualness gone from his voice.

"Wha… Why?" Murtagh gasped as he slowly got to his feet, panting at the mental blow.

Galbatorix shook his head again, once more seeming disappointed. "Gurney is boisterous, and has never bothered to learn to keep his mouth shut. He will not think to use the information himself, but his personal retainer is a spy for the Varden."

Murtagh blinked. "If you know he's a spy, why don't you kill him?"

Gallbatorix stared at him condescendingly. "Why bother? They'll just send another. It's not as though he knows anything useful. Quite the opposite, he is full of misinformation. I use spies to control my enemy's perceptions of me. It's an easy enough strategy. If I can convince them I have given over to vice and enjoyment of power they will cease to take me seriously."

Murtagh nodded at this, confused but wanting to get out before Galbatorix lost his patience again. The king didn't seem to have anything else to say, and Murtagh wanted to leave at the first opportunity.

"Any more questions?"

Murtagh swallowed. "No... sir."

"Good. Tell Halec to send up Evendir later, tell him I require his usual services. And Murtagh? Don't try to use the spy to send a message to your brother. That's an order."

Murtagh blanched, guilty that he hadn't even thought of that. "Yes, your majesty."

**Confucius say: One who write reviews will have good fortune, and is a better standard of person to one who doesn't.**


	3. Rising to the Surface

**I do not own Inheritance. However I will not remove this story no matter what you ask me, come what may. Should you try I will allow you to sue me, do everything in my power to slander your good name while in court and make sure I put every cent I can scrape together towards the case. You'll lose tens of thousands in a meaningless battle, and I'll declare bankruptcy at the end to ensure you never see the money again. Yes, I'm very petty.**

**Chapter 2**

Murtagh sat alone in his featureless room, reading a scroll Tarascus had assigned him. There was usually nothing to fill his time, he had no duties or responsibilities beyond the kings latest order or whim. Occasionally he would be taken aside by Tarascus or Zakath, and taught details of magic or swordplay that he had never considered before, or give him something like this scroll to memorize, but usually he was left alone to do as he wished.

In theory his room was sumptuously appointed, but there were no signs of habitation, nothing to distinguish it from the seemingly endless supply stretching both ways. It wasn't his home, wasn't even somewhere that he lived. He had been more at home in his cell at Tronjheim.

The scroll he was trying to concentrate on dated back to before the rider's days, detailing a philosophy on why some people could access magic with ease and do things using less power then others. No doubt the subject was interesting enough, but the writer seemed to have taken pains to remove anything of interest his subject matter may once of contained.

At last he put own the scroll in disgust and left his room, making his way back to the caverns beneath the citadel where Thorn was housed, the Dragons Cavern. He wondered why a being of the sky would choose to live underground. Thorn hated it, but Shuriken felt more at ease in the dark, and had taken them for his own when the castle had been completed, and as such Thorn had been placed with the larger dragon by default.

Leaving the corridors he made his way into the cellars beneath the citadel, then further until he came to the prisons, where they kept those whose crime was too heinous to warrant a clean death, or even a messy one. In theory, at least. Murtagh wondered how many of these people's only crime was simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or for trying to do something that the king disapproved off.

Murtagh made his way through the dungeons carefully, not looking into the cells. He had made the mistake of doing so last time he came down here, and had felt physically ill. At last he came to the iron grate that led below. Slipping through he came cautiously though the narrow tunnel that opened up into a cavern the size of a townhall, with a great crimson dragon curled up in the centre..

Thorn's tail was a scarred stump. The dragon seemed extremely conscious of this mutilation, overly compensating for it in every movement, as though fearing to loose his balance. The majority of his wounds had faded through judicious application of magic, but there were a few exceptions that had closed into scars. A soft growl rumbled from deep in his chest with each breath, sounding like to rocks banging together. Thorn was pleased.

_How went it, brother?_

Murtagh shrugged. _He seemed pleased. Of course it's nearly impossible to tell what he is thinking._

Thorn nodded, a slow and ponderous motion, showing his lack of familiarity with his new body. He had grown another nine feet since his last confrontation with Saphira, and would continue to grow at such a rate until the king ended the spell.

_Did he hurt you, brother?_

_No. He didn't seem angry. He wasn't pleased, but he didn't seem angry either._

_Why is he making us do this?_ Thorn thought softly, the childlike innocence of his actual age belying his immense size and fearsome appearance.

Murtagh walked loser and ran his hand over his dragon's immense jaw, the pebbly scales sharp edges prickling at his skin. _That's what he does. He uses people until they stop serving his purpose, then discards them._

Thorn shook his head slightly at the attention, but continued his tangent. _As long as I have been aware I have been trapped, forced into being nothing more then a tool. When you came along was the happiest moment I can remember. I met someone like me, trapped by heritage and enforced loyalty, wanting nothing more to escape, to be free. A kindred spirit._

Murtagh continued stroking his dragon, making his way to the bony ridges beneath his eye. _I know._

Thorn's growls intensified. _I harbor those I am forced to kill no anger. They have done nothing to deserve my ire. And yet I can bring only destruction. The only one who deserves death is the one who commands me. But I do not seek vengeance. I only wish to be my own master, to sore the winds with you on my back, to find a place in this world where we may determine our own destiny._

Murtagh nodded. It sounded good. No, it sounded perfect_. Perhaps we will find that place one day._

Thorn's dark thoughts did not abate at his reply. If anything they intensified_. But what am I? Nothing more then a weapon? A tool for killing those who have never wronged me?_

_You are my friend. My closest friend. _

Thorn rumbled, smoke puffing out of his jaw. _Perhaps. But I like this not. I have no wish to spend our lives here, do you?_ Thorn asked, than pushed on without making a reply. _Nor should you. Perhaps it would have been better to die then live as slaves._

Murtagh shook his head. _How is death any different? Isn't it better to live and hope?_ For the millionth time since Eragon had confided in him abut changing identity, he thought about attempting it, and as usual dismissed it. He had read up on relevant scrolls, and knew there would be no help from that quarter. Not only was the purpose totally uncontrollable and dangerous, it could lead to ends he didn't even want to consider. Besides, what was to stop the king from forcing him to swear the oaths again? There had to be a way that offered hope, not just fleeting chance.

Their conversation was interrupted by a great thundering footfall that made the entire cavern tremble. Another followed, then another, until Murtagh feared the cavern would collapse. A head the size of a wagon snaked through a cave at the western edge, it's horns like ship staves scraping either side of the walls. Fangs as long as spears glistened even in the underground, lightless murk, contrasting with the scales as dark as an assassins heart, and it's dark eyes like depthless pools glared at them, filled with immeasurable wisdom and sadness, and a terrible, festering hate.

It continued forward until it stood before Murtagh, it's vast bulk was larger then seemed possible. Being confronted by it was vaguely surreal, as though a tower had been somehow animated and given limbs. It's head swept the cavern that was not already taken up by it's own massive form, until it fixed on Murtagh. A deep growl of displeasure rumbled up from it's throat, and a small jet of white hot flame jetted from it's nostrils, so bright it made spots dance before his eyes.

_Why are you here?_ The voice was so soothing, so refined, that for a moment Murtagh had trouble believing it came from the monstrous beast that loomed above him.

_I only wished to speak to Thorn._ Murtagh replied hastily, looking up but not quite daring to meet the dragons eyes. He had been confronted by Shuriken before, but each time was terrifying anew.

Shuriken inclined his head slightly, somehow contriving to seem all the more menacing doing so. _And why are you really here?_

_It's the truth!_ Murtagh protested desperately, unconsciously taking a step back.

Shuriken's deep eyes the size of wagon wheels narrowed, and he took another thundering step forward. Dust trickled from the ceiling. _This is my world, and you are trespassing without reason. Leave, or suffer. _Shuriken replied, growling slightly as he did, so low it hurt Murtagh's ears. _This is a world for dragons._

Murtagh nodded unsteadily, backing away. Thorn took a step forward shakily, and inclined his head. Murtagh didn't hear what Thorn said, but the bigger dragon lashed forward, his teeth snapping a few inches from Thorns snout, making the crimson dragon recoil. _SILENCE PUP!_ Shuriken's mind roared, nearly knocking Murtagh of his feet from the sheer overwhelming rage. Gone was the refined tone present before, now he was nothing less then a feral animal. _Do not presume to lecture your betters._

Thorn hurriedly backed away, but Shuriken seemed slightly mollified. _Leave. Now._ He said to Murtagh, then began to withdraw.

Murtagh let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, relieved that the dragon was leaving.

_That one terrifies me, brother._ Thorn said shakily, once the bigger dragon was out of sight. He had been shuddering throughout the entire exchange, cowed by the bigger dragon. Murtagh understood his feelings completely.

_Me too._ Murtagh replied wholeheartedly, shivering despite the heat Thorn radiated. _But I thought he was your teacher._

_Yes and no._ Thorn replied._ Your king has made him teach me what it is to be a dragon. Teach me who I am, what I am, what I am capable of, everything he knows. But he doesn't like it. I feel he would kill me if the king didn't want us. _Thorn nudged Murtagh softly with his head. _It would be best if you went, time has already run out. But come back soon._

_I will._ Murtagh promised as he left_. I will._

*****

Murtagh made his way back to the room, not in any particular hurry. He had resolved to finish the scroll Tarascus had given him. Making his way back out of the maze off cells and rooms that made up the dungeons, he thought about what Thorn had said. Part of him felt guilty for not finding out sooner, whenever he'd tried to ask about the training Thorn had gotten curiously tight lipped, but Murtagh had just assumed it was hard to explain. Besides, he'd had his own problems.

Suddenly he felt like running back down and begging Thorn to forgive him. He knew it was unnecessary, that Thorn didn't need or want his pity, but it was himself he was mad at. He had neglected his one and only friend, not bothered to see things from his perspective, and knew even if Thorn forgave him then and there it would take him years to forgive himself.

The corridors, twists and turns of the catacombs had him stumbling around in the dark, the corridors seeming to blend into each other. Twice he was forced to backtrack, following his path back until he found something he recognized and began his trek again. He hadn't met anyone in the dungeon, but he'd seen the prisoners. Revulsion settled in his stomach, congealing into a hot bile that mingled with his rage against the king. Was there no end to his atrocities?

Murtagh kept his eyes focused ahead at the path before him, refusing to let them waver to either side, and ignoring the brief glimpses he got in his peripheral vision, through the bars on each door. But try as he might he could not block out the susurrus of screams, heartbreaking sobs, and worst of all the terrible, cold silence of those who had given up any hope. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of bowed, hooded figures in long robes, flitting from cell to cell, but he gave them a wide berth, and they ignored him. They had eyes only for their victims.

Part of Murtagh wanted to do something for them, even if it was just a comforting word or a clean death, but he couldn't. He was as much a prisoner as them, his cell his own mind, his torture the gradual erosion of his identity through the king's machinations. He had nothing to offer them, much as he hated himself for it.

After what could have been an hour and could have been an eternity, Murtagh pushed back the door that led to the citadel, and took a deep lungful of air that didn't stink of copper and salt and human suffering. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor it, then took the staircase up towards his room. Part of him wanted to try and run, to go back to Thorn and try and escape, or to make a break for it himself and let Thorn follow. But he dismissed it. He couldn't, physically couldn't. Besides, where would he run? The King would hunt him down, and make him pay. He didn't know if it was the oaths he'd been forced to swear, or simply his own realism, but he wouldn't try.

Making his way up the staircase one step at a time, he stopped observing his surroundings, casting his mind back to the conversation he had with Eragon when his brother had told him it would be possible to escape. He had thought about it several times, but each time he had dismissed it, if leaving the kings service meant compromising everything he was anyway, then he may as well stay where he was. But for the first time he began to consider the possible consequences of doing nothing. He was nervous around the king, you'd have to be insane not to be, but he'd never realized how narrow the line he walked was. He was alive at the king's sufferance, and the king did not actually need him. Suddenly defiance didn't feel so good.

He came at last to his own room, and opened the door slowly, still deep in thought. Duncan Halec turned from his chair to stare at him, making him start. Halec was a big man, his jerkin tight across his barrel of a chest, his arms crossed to reveal the boulders of his biceps. At nearly fifty, he still maintained the heavily muscled build that had served him well in the dozen brutal professions that he had followed through the Empire.

His face bore testament to this. It was battered and misshapen, distorted by the scars of years of hard living and hundreds of fights. He was missing roughly a third of his teeth, and at some point he'd lost an eye, which was now covered by a black silk patch. It was the face of a man who had spent the majority of his life inflicting or receiving pain. It should have looked brutal, but somehow the easy relaxed smile and laughter lines creasing his mouth prevented that, and instead it simply looked battered.

Halec inclined his head respectfully, then got up, towering over the rider. "Murtagh, I have been instructed to escort you to tonight's meal, where I shall act as your retainer." Halec said slowly, his gravely voice lengthening the words.

Noticing the flash of sullen panic that appeared on the riders face, he gave an exasperated, long suffering sigh, and handed him some neatly folded clothes. "I prepared these for you, and you have an hour to get ready."

Murtagh nodded gratefully. He had attended functions a few times in his life, mostly after his father died, and had hated every second of them. People simpered at each other, and complained about ludicrous things. He would rather flying back into battle. But then, if he had his way he wouldn't be here at all. Accepting the clothes grudgingly, he closed the door behind the big man and began to change.

Half an hour later, Halec reappeared, changed and freshly scrubbed. He had exchanged his usual leathers for a surcoat of black silk and a velvet doublet of the same shade. On anyone else this would have been frippery, but Halec still looked like a thug. A beatific smile shone on his scarred face. Walking over he assisted the young rider with the straps and buckles that held his suit together.

"Why has he ordered this?" Murtagh asked sullenly, but politely. He could see no logical reason for the king to do give this particular order, and had decided it was purely for the purpose of humiliating his toy.

Hallec shrugged, then pulled a buckle tight. "Far be it for a mere servant like me to guess the goals and plans of the king of Alagaësia, but if I were to give my opinion, I'd guess that he wants to know what else he can use you for. You're a good killer, but he can get them by the hundreds, and he's pretty handy with a blade himself. Now he wants to see how far he can trust you, and learn your other uses to him."

Murtagh bristled at the implication he was nothing but a killer, but then felt a cold, twisting feeling in his gut as he considered what the old servant was saying. He felt like laughing at the word 'trust,' but it all seemed true. He didn't know whether to be afraid or pathetically grateful to the king for giving him this small modicum of trust. Halec seemed not to notice, continuing as he pulled another strap tight. "Of course, Galbatorix hates to waste resources, and politics always annoyed him, or so he complains. He's going to use you to keep all the nobles in balance, so he can do whatever it is he does when he's not on the Throne or playing Ruler at court."

"So he's making me his steward?" Murtagh asked incredulously. Everyone said the king was crazy, but he'd never seen any such evidence, until hearing this. The king knew he couldn't trust Murtagh, that he'd do whatever he could to bring the king down. Trusting him with all this…

Halec gave out a short chuckle, like a dog barking. "Not on your life. But being a king isn't about making the big decisions. It's about keeping things balanced. He wants to see how you cope with that. And that's what he'll be doing tonight. Don't mess it up." With that, Halec pulled the last strap tight and slapped him on the shoulders. Dragging him over to a mirror, he made a few minute adjustments, like a jeweler straightening his tools, then showed Murtagh his reflection.

Murtagh nodded. He looked good, the expert cut of the clothes emphasizing the hard lines of his build and his razor sharp good looks. "Why is everything black?" He asked, keeping what he really thought to himself. These clothes were comfortable, but didn't keep him warm, wouldn't keep the rain of his back, hampered his movement and wouldn't stop a sword thrust. His practical soul rebelled against them, but it seemed to small a thing to be tortured over for disobedience.

"It's the king's color. Your representing him. Why do you think?" Halec replied, turning and picking up Zar'roc, which he handed to Murtagh along with a fine quality belt.

"I've never seen him dressed like this." Murtagh replied, belting the sword to his hip, then adjusting it so it wouldn't bang against his leg when he walked.

"He never bothers with it. Wears his armor everywhere. He says he's king by word, deed and strength, and none of his subjects care how he dresses." Halec replied, leading him down a hallway towards the great hall. He said nothing else, not bothering to reply to the Rider's attempts to find out more information. At last they came to a long hallway that ended in a pair of majestic double doors that led to the greathall. A constant stream of servants bustled through the corridor, towards the smaller door at the left. Halec followed the corridor halfway, then turned off into an adjoining room, to give the rest of the guests time to arrive.

"I suggest you do not try to undermine the king. It won't do any good, and it might get people killed."

Murtagh looked at him oddly, in clear surprise. "What?"

Halec stared at him, his brown eye seeming unusually piercing. "You might sit in the kings chair, but you don't have any of his power. If you try to work against him, the king will eliminate those involved, one way or another, and try again."

Murtagh gaped. "But they're nobles!"

"Your point? If they did anything useful they would be out doing it. They're here because they have nothing important to do with their time. And the king only bothers with them because they have powerful relatives. He can use them as hostages, or as leverage."

"But… he wouldn't dare…"

"Who's going to stop him? He can do whatever he wants. Just because he doesn't like to be brutal doesn't mean he can't. Don't forget that. So do as he says, and don't try to be brave, or people could die."

Murtagh glared at the servant. He'd wondered why the man had been so forthright with him, and now it was clear. Because Galbatorix had ordered him to be. The king wanted him to understand his position, to realize this was a test, to ensure he acted as the king wished. He growled slightly under his breath. "He knows I will. It's not like I have a choice."

"Oh, you would anyway."

Murtagh glared at the man, his dark eyes burning with anger. "Don't ever say that again. I serve because he forces me to. I would die before serving him willingly."

"Now, now. Don't lie to an old man. If you really thought that, you'd be dead."

With that, he led Murtagh out of the room, to the double doors.

**If you have reviewed so far and I have not thanked you, consider yourself thanked. If you have enjoyed the result of my labors without reviewing, this is your opportunity to redeem yourself. Review, and be absolved of your silence.**


	4. Shades of Black

**Chapter 3**

**I do not own Inheritance, yet. Bear with me, it will all be over soon. I also do not own the poems written by Robert E Howard, yet I ripped off part of 'The Road Of Kings' for the song Sanasta sings. Oh what a tangled web we weave…**

Murtagh was escorted with little ceremony to the great hall, where the entirety of Galbatorix's court were housed, along with visiting dignitaries and an endless stream of toadies, flatterers, nobles and other aristocrats, all seeking the king's favor. Almost none of them received it, but politics was never an easy game, and while most wasted their time, occasionally one would, and it led to the opportunity to make alliances and agreements with each other, and

Halec pulled Murtagh aside to a small antechamber as the last arrivals made their way through the doors, then waited another minute to give them time to be seated. At last he led him through, to the great hall. Descending a broad, curved stairway lined with candles that had been designed purely for the purpose of facilitating grand entrances, Murtagh marveled at the size of the room. It was as big as the dragons cavern, and even the entirety of the guests did not fill it. Murtagh suspected that everyone in the castle could fit in this room with ease.

Each arrival was boomed out by a short, stocky, dark man, who wore more gold then a decently sized village would earn in a decade. He favored a long, luxurious beard a dwarf might envy, and held a long oaken staff with steel caps, which he rapped on the floorboards as he announced each arrival.

"Murtagh Morzansson, Dragon rider." He announced, after a moments agonizing over how to address him. There were quite a few murmurs of interest, and Murtagh saw ripples in the crowd as they turned from their meals to observe him. These murmurs intensified to a storm of protest when Halec sat him down at the head of the table in the king's chair, but when Galbatorix failed to materialize and slay this young upstart for his temerity, they became subdued and eventually stopped altogether.

Three seats to his right sat a man whose broad shoulders and sun browned skin seemed out of place in the luxurious surroundings. He seemed more a part of the mountains and forests of the world then anything that belonged here. His slightest movement spoke of steel-spring muscles knit to the keen intellect of a born swordsman. There was nothing deliberate or measured about his actions, either he was at rest, in which he was still as a statue, or he was in motion, with the slow deliberate movements of a lion stalking prey.

His garments were simple, well-cut cotton and a wool undershirt, both dyed forest green. He wore no ring or ornaments, no crest to indentify himself, and his black mane was wild and untamed. He was not eating, but resting his chin on his fist, surveying the room with his smoldering green eyes, like an ancient god passing judgment.

Sensing Murtagh's scrutiny, he turned to stare back, a fierce expression on his face. Murtagh signaled to Halec, who leaned down next to him.

"Yes?" Halec asked, in a way that seemed far to casual for a man being addressed by his lord.

"Who is that?" Murtagh asked, genuinely curious. The man didn't fit in here, and had attracted Murtagh's attention. Halec blinked at him. "That's Lord Meric. He owns an estate north of Urû'baen. He's the kings best general, and strongest supporter. Has a few other titles that don't mean much anymore, like The King's Champion. He's also Kialandí's son."

Murtagh started, nearly dropping his goblet. Gapping like a landed fish, he stared at the man, mentally assessing him against a picture of a man he'd once seen. The strong jaw and heavy brow were the same, as were the eyes and hair, but Kialandí was bigger, had stronger cheekbones and a dark, feral look around him that Meric lacked. Just the same, the resemblance was uncanny.

"But… but I thought none of the forsworn had children." Murtagh spluttered, still staring at the bigger man.

Halec shrugged. "Well, you're the only official one, but Kialandí was a lusty bastard. He had about twenty illegitimate children with assorted servants and mistresses on his estate, and refused to recognize any of them. However, those that impressed him he favored, making them compete for his attention. By the time he was twenty, Meric was the only one left, and he got everything except the name and titles when Kialandí died. He's a bad one. Some of the things they say…" He trailed of. Murtagh was staring at the man his face a mix of pity and sorrow, both for the other man and himself.

Halec disappeared, and returned bearing meat and wine, which Murtagh picked at, eager to be gone. The food looked delicious and exotic, several dishes he didn't know the name of, and a dozen he didn't even know how to eat, but he took small servings of the simple fare, which he stared at on his plate. He knew that he should be hungry, having missed lunch as well, but some how he didn't seem able to work up an appetite.

Around him everyone was locked in conversation. It drifted from subject to subject, but the point of focus seemed to be the war. Opinions and understanding of the process varied from person to person, but the consensus was that the Varden were living on borrowed time, and the war would soon be over. The loss of Feinster, Ceunon and Gil'ead were attributed to luck, or ignored totally, and the talk of the new rider was not even brought up, for which Murtagh was profoundly grateful.

Despite this, he didn't no whether to be amused or afraid by the consensus the nobles seemed to be reaching. Their assumptions were laughable, as was their confidence. If the Varden won he had little doubt he'd be seeing the same men in the hall, saying the exact same thing about the other side. But despite this, Murtagh suspected they were right. The empire had near limitless resources to call on, while the Varden were under equipped and had limited reserves. Eragon was no match for the king. He was only a match for Murtagh when he was backed up by thirteen elves. These were facts, and all the righteousness and bravery in the world couldn't change them. Perhaps these sycophants were all right.

A steady thrumming interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see musicians, three men and a women, had taken the centre of the hall, and were readying a variety of instruments, most of them stringed. They wore simple clothing, but their manner and appearance were enough to set them off as strangers to the city at a glance. Murtagh watched, enraptured, as they each played a cord, forming a soothing sound. The women then stepped forward and began to sing, as behind them the musicians picked up the tempo.

It was a sad, haunting song, that made Murtagh think of things he'd rather forget. He didn't recognize the language, and the words were lost on him, but the meaning was clear. It made Murtagh want to cry, and most of all want to go and sit next to Thorn and share the company of the being closest to him.

The girl was perfectly formed. Her skin was flawlessly white, the autumnal fire of her hair glistened in the torchlight like a cascade of living embers, and her bright green eyes were wide and deep. And her voice was beautiful, changing in caderence to match the words, now deep and husky, now light and trilling as birdsong. Too soon, the song was over, and she bowed to the polite applause. Smiling radiantly, she waited until it was over, then said in a northern accented voice "Now I will sing 'The Road of Kings.' It is credited to Palancar, first king of Alagaësia."

The musicians took up a steady beat, reminiscent of marching drums, and for a second Murtagh fancied he could hear the tramping of feet, the sounds of blades cleaving flesh and the screams of the fallen. Closing her eyes, the girl said in a clear, expressionless voice:

"_When I was a fighting-man, the kettle drums they beat_

_The people scattered gold-dust before my horses feet._

_But now I am a Great king, the people hound my track_

_With poison in my wine cup, and daggers at my back."_

Murtagh blinked at the words. They were recited beautifully, and given that the court was built on regicide perhaps it was not such a strange choice. But truth be told, he found the song deeply unsettling. He could, however, see why the king liked it.

"_Gleaming shell of an long dead lie, fable of right divine,_

_You gained your thrones by heritage, but blood was the price of mine._

_I, who have been a great king, I, who have been a slave,_

_I who have been a warrior, a madman, a knave."_

Looking around, Murtagh noted the frown on the faces of those watching. He supposed it made sense; they were the very people the verse was so depreciating of. Across the room, Murtagh saw a red faced bearded man grinding his teeth as the girl continued.

"I remember when Palancar said this. He'd just brought all the nobles to his court who disagreed with him to what they thought were negotiations. He killed them all himself." Said a odd voice behind Mutagh's left shoulder. Murtagh started and turned, to find an albino dwarf squatting behind him. He was bald as an egg, though the rest of him was exceedingly hairy, and dressed in only a loincloth and red belt from which a bell hung. His legs were bowed and shoulders hunched, making him appear even shorter, and he favored a scraggly beard, as pale as his skin. His fingernails were black claws, which he was compulsively scratching himself with.

Murtagh looked around, but no one else seemed to have noticed the stunted figure. Turning back he thought he'd vanished for a second until he realized that he'd ghosted forward and was helping himself to the meat on Murtagh's plate.

"Of course, the king wasn't so poetic himself. He was a savage man. Basically what he said was, 'Your all in my way, I've killed more men then I can count, try and stop me.' One of his ancestors who could hold a pen without breaking it wrote the verse. Though he wasn't nearly so interesting as Palancar. I left about then."

"Who are you?" Murtagh asked, still wondering who, or what, this was. He didn't act like a dwarf, and he certainly wasn't human.

The small figure shrugged. "What does it matter? I'll still be me whatever you call me. I'll still do the same things, act the same way. I'll always be me. What's the difference? If you insist on referring to me, call me Morgost."

"Who… What are you?" Murtagh said, trying to get his head around Morgost's verbal trickery.

"I'm a werecat. I like to be where important things are. We all do. And at the moment, this is the centre of the universe." He grinned, showing needle sharp teeth. "Besides, you are going to be important later. Tell me, what's more important to you, honor and duty, or freedom and happiness?"

"I… what?" Murtagh asked, now deeply confused. He felt like he was only hearing half a conversation, that depended on the listener having prior knowledge, and understanding of the subject matter.

"And who are you, the person you know you are, or the person everyone else says you are?" Morgost continued, leaping onto the table to stare down at him, his face inches from Murtagh's, his yellow eyes bring into Murtagh's dark ones with inhuman intensity.

Seeing Murtagh's mystified expression, Morgost grinned an unsettlingly wide smile, showing needle pointed teeth again, in a long, unnaturally wide row that looked surprisingly deadly. "Nevermind. I'll ask you again in a few months." he said, and darted away. Murtagh tried to keep his eye on him, but he vanished among the crowd, none of who seemed to notice him, even when he was inches away from their faces. Shaking his head in mystification, Murtagh considered the words again, but they still didn't make much sense. Wishing the citadel wasn't warded so he could ask Thorn about them he sighed, then shrugged.

At last, he turned his head back to the girl, just in time to hear the last words of the song.

"_What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?_

_I, who was born on uncharted seas beneath the open sky._

_The subtle tongue, the written word, they fail when broadswords sing;_

_So come and die like the dogs you are, I was a man before I was king!"_

With that she concluded, with another bow. This time the applause was a lot more subdued, with many of the men around the room looking ready to commit murder. Murtagh buried an urge to laugh. She left the stage and the musicians took up a ditty, the sort you felt an instinctive wish to dance to. The meal had ended, and the entertainment was beginning. Soon servants would replace the wine with whisky and the musicians with dancing girls. Now was the time for politics.

"It begins, my lord." Halec commented dryly, as a gaggle of assorted brightly clad celebrants made their way towards him. Bracing himself for a few hours boredom, Murtagh got up and went to meet them, Halec in tow.

The first to arrive was a brown-robed women, with her head completely shaven and missing an arm and leg. Three interlocking triangles decorated a solid gold pendant around her neck. She might once have been pretty, but years of deliberate self -harm and enforced misery had leached any beauty from her. She staggered with the aid of a crutch, yet this did no seem to overly inconvenience her.

"I am Archprelate Loresta. I am honored to meet you. How is the king, my lord?" She croaked, her voice seemingly parched, as though badly dehydrated. Murtagh had an urge to push past her and leave, but he forced himself to suppress it. He didn't like the Dras-Leonan clergy, in fact he hated them,

"Quite well." Murtagh replied, doing his best to seem disinterested in the hope she would get the hint and move on. She did not.

"Good to hear. His majesty would be well advised to return to Helgrind soon, after the good it did him in his last visitation. He has rarely appeared so well." She continued, her unnaturally deep voice growing even gravlier.

"Really." Murtagh said, backing away slightly.

"Has he mentioned his plans for our city recently?" She asked, and Murtagh felt like giving thanks.

"Yes. He says he has finally settled on a replacement for Tabar. She will be given the authority soon."

"Thank you." She croaked, in what was meant to be a thankful tone. "Did he mention anything about her?"

"I am afraid not." Murtagh lied, moving on to the next petitioner. Then the next one, and the next, until Murtagh began to loose track of them. The time that followed would have been insufferable if Halec was not there to give advice and give a succinct and pointed briefing about each of the people he met. Many of them seemed not to want anything more then a chance to meet him, whether to assess him or simply out of idle curiosity. A few wanted information about the king or the war, but he avoided the questions, remembering what Galbatorix had said about spies. He could not on good conscious let any of them find th

emselves in the dungeons because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"This is Gurney." Halec said at last, as a plump count finally departed, chortling to himself. "He's likeable enough in a boisterous kind of way, but he's a simple man. All he cares about in life is wine, women and the occasional hunt." Halec said as Murtagh met the next man.

He was big, nearly as big as Meric, (who, Murtagh noticed, still hadn't left his chair). Gurney was fit after a lifetime sent in the saddle, and his clothes were of good make, but clashed horribly due to his carelessness selecting them. A well-worn sabre graced his left hip, and he favored long, drooping moustaches, that gave his angular face a sad quality.

"Hello, lad." He said openly, clapping Murtagh on the back with a fatherly gesture. "Not bored stupid yet?"

Murtagh grinned slightly, glad to see a friendly face. "Give them a few minutes."

Lord Gurney gave a deep, rolling laugh, infectious in it's unashamed caderence, and clapped him again. "Oh, you'll do just fine there lad. Say, I don't suppose I could get a look at your dragon?"

"I'm afraid not." Murtagh replied, then inwardly winced. Gurney didn't seem bothered in the slightest.

"Pity that. Say, what's the old king up to?"

Seeing his chance, Murtagh adopted his best open expression, that wouldn't have convinced anyone with the slightest amount of guile in his or her make up, and said "Well, last I heard he was giving his mistress Dras-Leona."

Gurney let out another booming laugh, which seemed to contain shock and genuine amusement in equal measure. "Really? I wouldn't have wagered a copper he had any hot blood running in his veins. Don't suppose any of us really know him, eh?" With that he wandered off, still laughing to himself. With that a bald man very big ears and a haunted expression took his place, and the drudgery resumed.

Murtagh began to loose track of those he spoke to, and was about ready to snap when rescue came from an unexpected source. Sliding through the throng of people like a shark through a school of fish, Meric came up to him. "A word, if you please." He said, his voice deceptively quiet, and led Murtagh back to the table. A few of the petitioners stared after him longingly, but left it at that.

Meric was seated at the table with the singer he recognized from before. Gesturing beside him to an empty chair, Murtagh sat, and they surveyed each other, like to chess grandmasters waiting for the other to make a move.

"I wondered what you'd be like." Meric said at last. "I thought perhaps another version of myself. Younger. Perhaps more at peace with the world."

Murtagh glared at him. "Sorry I don't live up to your expectations."

Meric didn't deign that with a reply. Instead he looked over Murtagh again, than met his eyes. "It's not my expectations you should be worried about." He said, his eyes boring into Murtaghs with a terrifying passion.

Murtagh did not lower his eyes. The man was intimidating, but he was not the king. "Did you have something you wanted to say?" He practically snarled.

"I have been asked to lead our defence of Belatona. The king has told me I can have any resources I like. I want you to come with me." Meric replied, his tone carefully blank.

Murtagh blinked, but otherwise remained perfectly still. He'd weathered enough surprises today, this was nothing special. "I'm afraid I can't. My dragon is… hurt."

Meric shook his head. "You can accept now, or you can wait until tomorrow, at which point the king will summon you and you can try petty insolence with him. But don't waste my time. I don't suffer fools."

Murtagh glared at him. "Even if I wanted to help you, Thorn is physically unable to fly."

Meric didn't deign to give an answer. Instead he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The girl smiled shyly at Murtagh, then turned and followed him.

Murtagh glared at his back, overcome with a desire to curse, then strode up the stairs and out of the hall instead, unable to bear another second in there. He'd done enough of the king's dirty work for one night.

**Thank you for your reviews. I appreciate them. They give me strength where there is doubt and courage where there is fear.**


	5. Council of War

**Chapter 4**

**I have recently begun my hostile takeover of Christopher Paoloni's Intellectual property. Soon it shall be mine.**

Eragon had cleared a space in his room in the castle, and was now using it to practice the third level of Rimgar. The contortions of his body helped him focus his mind, as well as giving him something to keep occupied with. Boredom was beginning to take a toll on him, and he felt the need to move in some way. The constant monotony of the last week and a half was beginning to crush his spirit.

Since finding Saphira's egg, Eragon had known little peace. Periods of relative calm, such as his time in Du Weldevarden, were spent bettering himself and training, learning who he was and what he was capable of. The rest of his time had been spent either running from the Empire, traveling or fighting. Even then, his time had been filled by the minute.

Now, there was nothing expected of him, but that he remained here, demoted to symbol. The Varden needed his presence, but they didn't need him.

At first he had spent the time with Saphira, but gradually the Varden began to put demands on both of them that drew them apart. Eragon disliked the tasks he was set, mostly just appearing in minor negotiations and agreements with Lady Lorona and assorted nobles and authorities who run the city. They had discussed everything from providing lodgings and supplies for the Varden as they recuperated, to the changes in policy and administration now that it was a conquered city.

Initially Eragon was fascinated, in observing the victory of the Varden over the kings tyranny, and felt a sense of history and grave responsibility at each of these meetings. However, reality soon crushed these delusions, and he found that most of the meetings were negotiations and minor quibbling. He himself wasn't even called on to do much, simply to stand there and look impressive. It was beginning to remind him of the negotiations he'd endured in Tronjheim, when the dwarves had been electing their king.

Saphira herself was doing much worse. She did not like remaining static, and she had grown accustomed to a life of travel. The lack of a release for her pent up energy made her snappish and irritable. Eragon privately suspected, though made sure not to voice it through their bond, that this was also due to the reception she had received. Far from the deference and respect given to her by the elves, many of the people here treated her as little more then an exotic pet.

She had terrified a minor functionary half to death when he had led her towards the stables, and would most likely of finished the job if not restrained by Blödhgarm when he had suggested muzzling her. Since then she'd whiled away her time hunting and sleeping in the wild a few miles from the city, growing more irritable with each passing day. Eragon had tried to make time to visit her, but there simply weren't enough hours in the day, and while what he was doing didn't seem very important, it took up a lot of time. The separation was all the more noticeable in that for her to live so she had to remain just outside the range of their bond. Both of them were suffering.

A knock at his door shattered his concentration. Midway in the fourth stance, he almost lost his balance and collapsed. Righting himself he replaced his clothing and stretched, but made no further movements. If it was important, whoever it was would come the rest of the way to him.

The knocking did not relent. After a minute of the interminable pounding, Eragon gave an exasperated sigh and pushed the door open.

Looking around the hallway he didn't see anyone, until he looked down, to see a boy of perhaps ten staring up at him with wide eyes. The boy was dressed in simple clothes, and had the look of one of the servant's children who ran errands in the castle in exchange for coins. Fixing his face into what he hoped was a nonthreatening expression, he asked what the boy wanted.

"I've been told to go find you, your ridership." He squeaked, his voice a combination of open terror, hero worship and blatant awe. "They want you in the throne room." The boy seemed unable to take his eyes off Eragon's altered features, making Eragon cross his arms self-consciously. He would never get used to the stares.

"Who does?" He asked, still slightly miffed at getting interrupted.

"Everyone! The black queen lady, and the dwarfs, and the elves, and the…"

"All right, all right. Tell them I'm coming." Eragon said, closing the door. Sighing as he prepared for yet another day of grueling boredom, he stripped down again and began to dress in the clothes the elves had given him in Du Weldenvarden. He had been given plenty of fine clothes since returning, but he preferred the elf made fabric, and was uncomfortable in to much finery.

With a sigh, he opened the door to his room and walked down the corridor, towards the room Nasuada appropriated for her councils. Eragon didn't like the castle. He found it stifling, lacking in privacy and overall far to big. He would much rather be spending time with Saphira, or sleeping in the open. But once more, for appearances sake, he was forced to take a room and sleep in it.

Turning left at the corridor that led to the throne room, he followed a staircase that spiraled around until he was beneath it, then continued forward until he came to a door. Four Nighthawks stood to attention, three humans and a dwarf leveled their eyes at him, and he felt a probe in his mind. Then one of them gaped has he came close enough for his features to be recognized, and they stepped aside, their suspicious looks changing to ones of respect., and two of the humans bowing deferentially. Opening the door carefully, he stepped in, gazing around the room as he did so. A dozen figures looked up at him, then returned to their preparation.

The table in the centre of the room was circular, appropriately forestalling the awkward moment when people of equal rank meet and have to compromise in every sentence. Directly in front of him was Nasuada, who was examining several charts and tables, making notes with a tight, controlled hand on a page to her right. Beside her sat Jörmundur, her ever-faithful second in command, occasionally giving advice or making corrections in a low voice.

Orik was arrayed in the full regalia of a dwarven king preparing for war. He clutched Volund in a spiked gauntlet, and wore a horned helm on his brow. His beard was plaited into an intricate series of knots, giving him a barbaric appearance, and he wore heavy plate armor, leaving almost none of his skin visible. Another dwarf Eragon recognized as Gannel, high priest of the Quan sat beside Orik, clad in his usual robes. He gave Eragon no acknowledgement, though Orik flicked his free hand in a casual salute. "Good to see you, argetlam." Orik said gruffly. Gannel didn't say a word, his hooded eyes expressionless.

"You're looking well, Eragon." Nasuada said, not looking up from her charts. Eragon inclined his head, but she ignored it, paying him no further notice. For a second he clenched his fist, irritated at being ignored, but then he shook his head. She was responsible for thousands of people, she had duties to take care of. He couldn't expect to be included in everything.

Arya was in her usual leathers, but wore them with more grace and dignity then all the jewels in Alagaësia could have imparted. She held herself rigid, her back as straight as a board and her eyes straight ahead. Blödhgarm sat beside her, seeming quite at ease, cleaning his fingernails reflectively. He was the only one at the table who seemed relaxed and disinterested, and his only gesture towards the company he was in was his freshly scrubbed fur.

Nar Garzhvog was not seated, as no regular chair could ever hold his vast bulk. Instead he couched on the floor, so his head was almost level with the table. He was dressed in assorted pieces of armor that seemed mismatched, and wore a great axe as long as Eragon was tall on one shoulder. The huge urgal had not appeared in any of the meetings so far, which Eragon suspected was due to the fact that most humans loathed them, thinking of his people as nothing more then wild beasts. Even many of the Varden were against their inclusion. But Eragon knew Garzhvog was honorable to a fault, and as honest as anyone in the Varden. Trianna sat beside him demurely, her eyes in constant motion as she watched the inhabitants of the room.

"Firesword." Said Garzhvog, tilting his chin so that his throat was bared directly at Eragon. This was the greatest sign of trust an urgal could give, meaning he entrusted his life in yours. "Garzhvog." Eragon replied, as he shifted behind him, walking towards Nasuada.

King Orrin had his back to him, along with his prime minister and two other men that Eragon didn't recognize, but didn't look Surdan. One had a red beard streaked with grey, and a careworn face, with his right wrist ending in a cap in place of his hand. The other was a big man, wearing enough gold to buy a small town, with skin as dark as Nuasada's. To Nasuada's left was a single vacant seat, reserved for him. Walking slowly, taking care not to disturb anyone, Eragon made his way over and sat. Staring around, he noticed that what he had previously taken for mere decorative carvings was in fact a map of Alagaësia, the cities represented by gemstones, the mountains and valley's carved with the greatest care. Eragon blinked, then smiled. The negotiations were over, it seemed. This was unmistakably a council of war.

At last, Nasuada put down her charts and stood up, instantly gaining everyone's undivided attention. Taking a second to compose herself she took a deep breath, then fixed everyone in the room with a steely gaze. "The day after tomorrow we march." She began, and then paused, giving people time to raise protestations. When no one did she continued on. "I would prefer more time to consolidate our hold on the populace, but time is a luxury we do not have. Instead we have to push on, and hope for the best. If we wait any longer I suspect we will meet an army on the walls of Belatona. As it is they have had time to prepare, and the city will not fall without a fight."

Orik cleared his throat, but didn't offer any contributions. After a second's frosty silence, Nasuada resumed speaking. "It is two weeks march to the city. The urgals could do it in one, and no doubt Eragon could be there tomorrow, however we doubt the siege will be effective without massed forces, and we cannot afford to divide our troops. King Orik has offered to provide the troops to guard our supply lines, and we have bought and commandeered enough resources to feed the entirety of our army for a month."

At this Jörmundur took over. He was short and stocky, very gaunt, but despite this knots and cords of muscle stood out on his arms and legs, without any of the fleshy padding that presents a pleasing symmetry of contour. He was built with an incredible economy, with not a single wasted inch on his frame, not a single spec of fat to be seen. Whenever he moved, you could see cords adjust under his well-tanned skin like writhing snakes. His deep-set eyes were as calm and tranquil as the sea after a storm, and his blond hair was drawn into braids that hung around his features like heavy ropes. He was clean shaven, but his chin was dark and prickly with stubble.

Enunciating clearly in his slow, steady voice, he remained totally expressionless, as though giving a report about the weather. "Our men are all equipped better then a standard legionary from Galbatorix's forces, but our total forces come to thirty thousand soldiers. The king commands a core of fifteen thousand troops, but our spies inform us he has hired every mercenary, cut-throat, freelance knight and beggar with a sword in the Empire. With conscription, we estimate his forces outnumber us six to one. The elves have forced him to divide his forces, but facing him on the open battlefield would be most unwise. Our men have been hardened by the recent battles, but his men are extremely experienced, and are not as divided as our forces. Worse, several of the spies who have been observing Galbatorix, report that he has seemingly vanished, leaving Murtagh to run things."

At this Eragon started. He didn't know how he felt about Murtagh, but from what he knew the king had forced him into service. The thought that the king had given him that much trust was disheartening.

Jörmundur continued, not waiting for any interruptions. "We estimate we can take Belatona in four days. Three, if Murtagh is not there. After that we will be reinforced by Lord Kantor, a long time supporter who has decided to throw his lot in with us. As well as resupplying us, he will give us two thousand men at arms, and the contents of his treasury. After this, we will be in a quandary."

"What do you mean?" King Orrin asked, drawing everyone's attention to him. King's can look like anything. Those who inherit their position are often deceptively soft and pandered, weak on the surface, sharp as knives underneath. Those who take others kingdoms for their own are often big, brutal people, savage in their manner and speech. And those who build their own kingdoms from scratch are often wild and untamed, with steel in their souls and fire in their eyes, who speak with a deep intensity and conviction and are often quite insane.

King Orrin looked more like a clerk then a king. He was of average height, unassuming in build with the sort of handsome face that is instantly forgettable as soon as you look away. He wore his curly hair short, and favored a well-trimmed beard. He wore glasses, that perched on the end of his slightly too long nose. But this face was a mask, as complete as any. Behind it was a thunderous temper and bravery to shame a lion.

Jörmundur turned to look at him, and paused, considering how best to answer the question. "We initially planned to march on Dras-Leona, giving us a clear path to Urû'baen, and a fortress to fall back on if necessary. If we leave it Galbatorix will have the means to attack our flank or rear, and to attack our supply lines. We will be crushed between two rocks."

Every one nodded, including Eragon. That was sensible. Jörmundur waited a moment, then continued. "However, we do not have the men to do this. We lack siege engines, and Dras-Leona will take a long time to fall. We estimate about a month. A conservative estimate places us at loosing two-thirds of our soldiers taking it. In addition to this, it is a weeks march from Urû'baen, and a days flight. By the time we had taken the city, we would be unable to field any army whatsoever. Most likely we would not even be able to hold the city for a prolonged period."

Muttering began around the table. "That is unacceptable." Orrin said loudly, and was met by a chorus of hear hears and agreements. "If a lack of men is the problem I can come up with more, and I'm sure the dwarves can too. We can't afford to have Dras-Leona left to it's own devices."

"Aye, I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem." Said Orik loudly. "But that isn't really the issue. The problem is, even if we gathered every Knurla, every Surdan, every Urgal and put them under arms, he'd still be able to outnumber us. We can only win by not giving him time to mobilize. And we can't afford the time it'll take to overcome Dras-Leona."

Orrin stared at Orik, "Be that as it may, we can't win if we don't do something. What about the elves?"

Arya shook her head. "It would take my people a week after you arrived to get there, but we would be of little use in such conditions. On the open field each of us are better than any ten regular troops, but against the sheer walls of Dras-Leona we would be of no use. We cannot crack them, or scale them as long as they are defended, and they have the magicians to render our magic useless."

Orrin made a scoffing noise that both Arya and Blödhgarm ignored, and tapped his finger angrily on the table. "There must be something we can do. Do we have magic superiority?

At this Trianna spoke up, remaining rigid as she spoke. She was young, perhaps a year older the Nasuada at the most, but she looked much older. Magic was begining to wear at her body, and her young figure was maturing at a faster rate. She was still beautiful, but lines were appearing at the corners of her eyes and her forehead. "No. The priests of the Helgrind alone would be easily capable of overwhelming us. No doubt by the time we got there Galbatorix would have reinforced them with his own, and even the elves would be unable to over come that too." For a second Blödhgarm perked up, as though wanting to speak, but then he shrugged and resumed sliding his index finger nail beneath his other nails.

Orinn's tapping picked up its pace as he frowned like a man trying to solve a riddle told in a language he doesn't understand. At last he sighed, seemingly defeated for the moment, and stopped tapping. "How long will it take to conquer Urû'baen?"

For a moment it seemed nobody was going to answer. Then Nasuada brushed a strand of errant hair behind an ear, and pursed her lips. "We don't know. It is without precedence. We are attacking the strongest fortress this world has ever seen. Next to Urû'baen, Tronjheim was wide open. There are to many factors. We suspect we will be forced into another open battle before arriving, and even there we are unsure of our ability to win. We will have a week to succeed before he is able to reinforce his position, and if we have not taken at least the outer walls by then, he will crush us against the walls like a blade against a grindstone."

"Is it hopeless?" Asked Garzhvog, lowering his head slightly as he did, his great horns almost scratching the table.

Nasuada shook her head. "No, it is not hopeless. Risky perhaps, but we believe we can win. But it will not be easy. Or even likely. But we knew from the start that we were outnumbered, that the Empire would be able to crush us if things did not go well. We are forced to take one more gamble. But that which we seek, a free Alagaësia, is worth the risk."

A somber silence filled the room. Everyone's face was ashen, their confidence shaken by uncompromising logistics. At last Eragon spoke up. "Couldn't we send a small percentage to deal with Dras-Leona, and use the remainder of our forces to besiege Urû'baen?"

The silence continued. "I don't like dividing our forces, and we will need every soldier we can get to take Urû'baen. But this is the only option I can see that has any chance of working." Jörmundur said slowly.

"So be it." Said Nasuada.

The conversation then turned to the minor details, discussing resources and possible paths to bring the army by. Eragon began to loose interest, and just when he was beginning to fidget the discussion ceased.

"There's one more thing to do." Orik said. "Seems to me, we need to be united as one force. I command the dwarves, Nasuada commands the Varden, Orrin leads his countrymen, and Garzhvog commands his people. We cannot continue this way. What happens when we give conflicting orders, or expect aid that is not there? In light of this campaign, I secede authority to Nasuada to command my men." With that he leaned back, a stoic expression on his face.

Eragon started momentarily, then looked over at Nasuada. Her face could have been carved from stone, but a tiny glimmer in her eye made Eragon want to smile. They'd planned this, the two of them, to put pressure on Orrin to accept Nasuada as supreme leader.

Orrin stared at them, then nodded. "It pains me to put the destiny of my people in the hands of another, but the alternative is worse." He said. The Prime minister gaped at him, but Orrin ignored him. "If we are to succeed, we must be united. I agree."

Garzhvog stared up at her. "I have already pledged my rams to you, Nightstalker. So far you have led us to victory. I see no reason to dispute your claim to command us without just cause. To do so would be dishonorable." He growled, then rose to his impressive height. "I will go now. I must rouse my people if we are to begin our march tomorrow." He turned to leave, but Jörmundur stopped him.

"We are not finished, Garzhvog." He sad, with the easy familiarity of those who share a bond of fighting together in battle, and trusting the other with your life. "Nasuada is to be supreme leader, but we must still divide the forces."

Garzhvog bobbed his head. "No. I command my Rams. Who else can? They will not accept the command of one who has not first proven himself, and which of you could command the Urgrala? Who is familiar with our strategies, our way of fighting? I have pledged myself to you, Nightstalker, and you, Firesword. Not them." With that he sat down, and remained that way for the rest of the meeting, staying quiet the entire time.

Jörmundur nodded at this, accepting Garzhvog's input as probably correct. "I take it the same goes for you, Orik?"

"Aye. I'll take my orders from Nasuada as long as I see them as right, but I won't be standing down. I can lead a battalion of dwarves better then anyone else, and we'd only weaken our forces by swapping commanders around." Orik said from somewhere in his helmet. Gannel nodded but remained quiet, twisting something furiously between his fingers.

Nasuada nodded at Orik, but left Jörmundur to do the talking. "So be it. The dwarves and the urgals will form separate detachments under the command of their own chosen leaders. That leaves the rest of us to be sorted. According to our heralds, our mustered strength now stands at nine thousand infantry, and four thousand horsemen, as well as five hundred knights and a two thousand bowmen. We also have a troop of perhaps a thousand who specialize as scouts and harrying tactics. On top of that we have perhaps a hundred spellcasters." Trianna nodded sagely.

Nasuada stepped forward. "The command of the artillery and baggage train will be given to Jörmundur." She said imperiously. Jörmundur set his jaw and bowed his head respectfully, offering no complaint, despite the fact that as positions go it was far from a compliment. "Command of the infantry divisions will be divided between Martland and Fadawar." The two men that Eragon didn't recognize accepted their roles nodded gratefully, the dark one seemingly shocked. Nasuada kept her voice level, but there was a hint of warning in her eyes as she regarded Fadawar. Eragon considered her reaction, and came to the conclusion that she was giving the dark man the chance to redeem himself from some past error.

"Martland, your division will be sent to besiege Dras-Leona. Do not attempt to take the walls, you do not have the men. Simply keep them holed up in there while we take Urû'baen." Martland blanched slightly and looked down, like a man fearing he is about to be condemned. Swallowing he looked up and stared across the table into Nasuada's eyes. "I will do my best, milady." He said in a steady voice, despite his paling face.

"Orrin will command the knights, and the horsemen." She added, and Orrin inclined his head, appearing unsurprised. The prime minister went to mutter something, but he silenced the man with a wave, appearing thoughtful. "Trianna will command the magic users, and will report to me and Eragon." She concluded. "The dwarvish spellcasters and Urgal shamans are expected to conform to this as well." At this Trianna sat back, looking very pleased.

"You will all report directly to me, and are free to elect officers among your ranks as you see fit." She said, smoothing her dress and sitting back down. Everyone nodded at that, it was only to be expected. "Have your men ready to march by the day after tomorrow." A few of them looked ready to object, but Jörmundur swept the room holding each of their gaze with his steely blue eyes, and they closed their mouths.

"Martland," Nasuada continued "you will remain behind with your forces for a week, and fortify the city, then continue on behind us. By the time you arrive we will have most likely taken the city, at which point you will be expected to continue on to Dras-Leona and create a blockade around the city. Do not attempt to actually besiege it, that would be a death sentence, but be convincing. Galbatorix must not unite his forces against us, or we will be crushed."

For a second King Orrin looked like he was going to reply, but then shut his mouth. Everyone else took his lead, staying quiet and waiting for Nuasda. But if they'd hoped for a speech they were sadly disappointed.

"You have your orders." She said, dismissal plain in her voice. Everyone sat around, appearing unsure of what to do, and then they trooped out, in two's and three's until Eragon was the only one left.

"Nasauda…"

"A direct command position would be detrimental to your ability, Eragon." Nasuada said, interrupting him briskly. "You serve a role that no one else can fill. If I die, I can be replaced. The same goes for everyone here, except you. Serve us as you deem best." She finished, before gesturing to the door.

Eragon opened his mouth to speak, but Nasuada shook her head. "You are a good warrior Eragon, but your main role will be countering the effects of the Empire's Riders. Putting you on the front lines would be a waste of your ability, and while I have no doubt that you could lead an army as well as you fight, I have leaders enough already." She said, seeming a little snappish to Eragon.

Eragon closed his mouth, deciding silence would be the best response. Everything was already planned, he was not needed here any longer.

He had to go see Saphira.


	6. Decisions

**Chapter 5**

**As my Hostile Takeover was unsuccessful, I have declared a Violent Overthrow. Inheritance will be mine one way or another. Viva La Revolution!**

Eragon strode through the streets of Feinstar, letting his conscious seep into the air around him, until he could feel the city around him, feel as it lived, breathed and thought, as every organism went about it's life. Cities, unlike men, are immortal. Which philosopher had said that? He couldn't recall, but he remembered the scroll Oromis had given him that had said that, describing the observances he'd made about humans way of life. He had taken only passing note of the words, but key points had stuck in his head.

The city teemed with life, from rodents and insects that lurked around the houses, to larger pets, and the humans themselves. Eragon didn't delve too deeply into the minds he brushed against, but he was dismayed by the emotions he did detect. Most of the inhabitants were subdued, their spirits crushed.

Eragon felt a flutter of pity for them. They did not serve the empire, not willingly, but they were the ones suffering, not those who deserved it. But one did not need magic to see this. It was all around him. Shops were closed, market squares were empty, both of merchants and customers, and the streets were all but empty, the few people on them keeping their heads down and hurrying from place to place. Occupation had accelerated the process of decay, and everywhere paintwork seemed chipped and vines created cracks within the stonework. Eventually, Eragon closed his mind. It was bad enough to have to see this.

Occasionally Eragon would see patrolling Varden troops. He wondered at the necessity but supposed it was better then leaving them to degenerate into a mob as he had heard almost happened in Surda. Keeping up military discipline took priority, but still, seeing them like that made them seem more like conquerors then liberators.

Even with the discipline, many of the soldiers had abandoned all sense of responsibility, and taken to drinking or other forms of excess in the city. Every day officers got back reports, that Eragon had managed to distance himself from with considerable effort. He did not blame the troops, many of them had been living as fugitives for so long, but he despaired at it. They weren't bad people, but they did bad things.

A few hollow eyed children stared at him from the corner of a street. They were gaunt and wasted from starvation, and dressed in rags. For a moment he wondered who they'd been, how they found themselves in the situation they were in. Sorrow moved him, and he wanted to kneel beside them, to comfort them, look after them and tell them it would be all right. But he didn't. Even if he helped these ones, there would be thousands more he wouldn't be helping, and there was little he could do anyway. Despite his prestige he had no money, no possessions but his sword, a few keepsakes and his clothes. He had nothing to offer these children, but the eventual prospect of liberty and freedom. The best thing he could do for them was keep on fighting.

Following the street down

Into an alley that was a shortcut to the main road, he noted how choked it seemed, the very air full to bursting with oppression.

At last he came to the gates, and walked through. The guards knew him, by description if not by sight, and were there to keep people from getting in more then getting out anyway. Just the same, they asked him his business in a professional tone, and had him state his name. Eragon found the whole thing tedious, but didn't hold it against them. They were just doing their job, and it had to be done.

Stepping through the gates he took a deep breath, enjoying the first breath of fresh air he'd had that week. The Varden's camp had all but disappeared, the majority of them moving into the city and appropriating lodgings. The officers were had been given estates on the borders belonging to the nobles they'd been forced to execute. That had been the hardest part of taking Feinstar, and the part that haunted Eragon the most.

Many of them had been ordinary people, had been 'just following orders,' and didn't want to have their souls sworn to the king. But they had, and nothing could be done for them. The rest had taken over the troops barracks after disbanding the soldiers, city guard and militia. They had not been penalized for taking the king's side. After all, they were just trying to defend their homes.

Eragon followed the road for half an hour until he came across a well worn game trail. Following it in long strides he walked along it until he came too the cliffs. Pausing a second he followed them along towards the setting sun, keeping his eye on the ocean. The storm two days ago had stirred the waves, and the Varden's fleet, such that is was, had been forced to go further out to sea.

The waves boomed against the cliff, with a sound like thunder, sending up great plumes of spray each time. Eragon felt the sting of it on his face and grimaced, but did not change his course. At last he stopped on a higher outcrop, and sat. Slowly he let down the shields around his mind. _Saphira?_ He called mentally.

At first there was nothing, no sign of their link. After almost a minute, a tenuous reply began. _Little one?_

_Saphira!_ Eragon roared joyfully, ecstatic after being separated for so long. It was a sad necessity to keep his mind shielded when in the city for fear of being overwhelmed by another magician. At first it hadn't mattered, since they had spent most of the time together anyway, but since the Varden had begun to call on him more and more for advice or assistance, and they had been forced apart.

Feeling her mind with his, Eragon joyfully threw down his barriers, letting her consciousness envelop his like a flood of warm water. Gasping as her new memories slid into his, he dropped to his knees at the joy of the feeling. He was no longer alone. Once more he was connected to Saphira, once more he was complete.

_Stay there. I will come up and get you._ She said, the joy in her voice a match for his.

Eragon picked himself up, and then walked over to the cliff. He could see at a glance that it was wet and slippery from the relentless pounding of the waves, and with the regularity of a heart beat they crashed against the cliff like an invading army. But he could see several outcrops, and more then enough handholds for what he intended.

_No, I'll come down to you._ He replied confidently, stepping cautiously over the ledge and lowering himself carefully. He nearly slipped, but he caught himself and continued.

_Remember Terim, Eragon._ Saphira scolded gently, but Eragon ignored her, dropping five feet onto the next outcrop.

_I've grown since then._ He snorted, waiting as a wave crashed below him, stopping barely four feet beneath him, the spray arcing up in a great plume leaving him soaked. Suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea.

Taking more care he slowly continued down, sometimes having to make do with only one handhold or no footholds as he did so. Shells that clung to the cliff tore the skin of his hands, and twice he started as he felt like he was about to slip and fall. But he didn't, and continued down. He managed to avoid most of the waves, but was shivering by the time he came to the cave. Eragon walked into the cave. It was deep, and far back enough not to be wet. Saphira liked it, it gave her plenty of room and clear run to hunt. Best of all, it meant she didn't have to stay anywhere near the city, and cultivate her silence away from Feinstar. It meant she was out of range of their bond, but they couldn't communicate while he was in the city anyway.

She disliked spending time in the Varden's camp, and to her the city was intolerable. Why would so many people choose to live like that, crushed together, unable to roam to be free, forced to enact the same mindless tasks again and again while enslaved by convention? Why, when they had but to leave and be free to make their own decisions, be themselves rather then just another face in a crowd? She couldn't understand it, and didn't care to try. To a dragon the thought of doing so was maddening. Eragon respected her choice, but missed her company.

_So, how have you fared, little one?_ Saphira asked, while sorting through his mind, looking for the relevant memories. Once Eragon would have found the idea repellant, that one being could have such a claim to his identity, to know his every thought and feeling, to steal any privacy he might claim from his life, but somehow it seemed right, meant to be. Saphira was not truly a separate individual, anymore then he was to her. They were two halves of the same being, their identities were separate from each other in exactly the same way his leg was separate from his arm. It was only right that they shared a mind.

Saphira's eyes lit up as she came to the council of war. Wise though she may be beyond her years, she could be extremely bloodthirsty when she felt she had reason, and the frustration from remaining static had added to this. _This is good little one._

Eragon stopped for a moment. Unbidden, memories erupted. He saw a soldier, scarcely more then a boy, pleading before he broke his neck. He saw the Empire troops at the burning plains, screaming as the poison ate away at their lives. He saw the bodies, dead and broken at the battle's end, and then he thought of Feinstar itself, how the troops had refused to surrender even though they must have known they couldn't win. They had cursed him, blaming him for bringing the destruction. And he remembered the smell, of iron and copper and salt, of offal and fear and smoke. The smell of the battlefield. He sighed_. It must be._ He replied.

Saphira's great blue eye sought out his brown one. Once it had been hazel, but now it darker, and sparkled with azure highlights. In time it would be as blue as Saphira's scales. _What troubles you? _She asked, although she knew all too well through their bond.

_This… All this._ Eragon said, making a broad gesture that seemed to encompass the last year of his life. _It's not right. I never wanted to spend my life resisting the Empire, but as events continued I got swept up in it, and now I can't stop._ He sighed, a wave of negative feeling rolling of him. _Once I imagined I could simply see the world, that there would be no consequences, free to make any choices I want. Now I am nothing more then a symbol._

_Is that really so bad?_ Saphira asked, and when he only grunted she plowed on. _You bring purpose and strength to hundreds. Your very existence is inspiration. And your purpose is noble. What more could you want?_

_I Just want this bloody war to be over._

_We have always known it could take decades. Longer. It was always going to be hard. But in the end, when we throw down the false king, when we buy liberation for all your people, it will be worth it._

Eragon sighed, but seemed a bit less lackluster. _Do you really believe that?_

_I know it._

_It's just…_ Eragon began again, a complicated feeling he found it hard to articulate welling up in his chest, _Why? Why does it have to be this way? I remember, before I joined the Varden, Murtagh killed a man, a slaver who wasn't fighting back, and I repudiated him for it_. Eraagon thought, realizing with a start he didn't even remember the slaver's name. It bothered him more then he cared to admit even to Saphira_. Now I've done the same thing. Sometimes there were even other options, but I just took the simplest way. What makes me better then them? Then any of them? I'm fighting to free them, but they don't want to be free. They're just defending themselves. I feel guilty, but not as much as I should. Most of the time I just feel empty. And I hate it, I hate the fact I don't emphasize with ordinary people anymore. What's to stop me from becoming as great a monster as the king?_

_Me for one._ Said Saphira_. You do not delight in bloodshed. You don't fight for fighting's sake. You're better then that. I don't fear what you are, and I will not let you become a monster, _

Eragon stayed quiet for a few minutes as he considered her words. They sounded so convincing when she said them, and yet…

_Do you think we can win, Saphira? Really?_

_The king is a traitor and an egg-breaker, his men are slaves and his allies monsters. We are fighting for freedom and a better future. Of course we will._

_But how?_ Eragon despaired. _How do we defeat him? We can barely defeat Murtagh! He killed Oromis like it was nothing. And Oromis was wiser then I will ever be._ Eragon said, beginning to slide into depression. He hadn't allowed himself to feel his mentor's death, the situation hadn't let him, and he had kept it up all this time. A hollow feeling had been coiled around his heart since it had happened, occasionally lessening until it was only a dull ache. How could Oromis die?

He was the last free Rider. It was a thought he'd been wrestling with since Oromis had suggested the possibility, that had now become cold hard reality. He was the last hope. He felt a wave of sympathy through the link.

_He took advantage of Oromis's weakness, little one. That is all. He will find us harder to deal with._

_I… I just don't know what to do. How? So many people have tried before._

_Remember what the Solembum said, little one._ Eragon stopped, and sighed. He had thought about the werecats words, more then ever since the Menoa tree, but just the same he could not find any relevance in them. He had searched every resource he could find looking for some reference to the rock, and had found nothing.

_Have faith._ Saphira said gently, and he sighed again, not out of frustration, but out of defeat.

They remained together for hours; the heat Saphira exuded warming him, her presence filling he emptiness in his heart. They were both silent, but they were closer then they had been in months.

*****

At last, Eragon climbed back up the cliff. Low tide had come, and the sun had dried the rocks. He relished the exercise, but the danger was gone.

Eragon began to reluctantly close his mind, and Saphira did the same. He loved her company, she had a way of helping him find answers and conclusions he himself would struggle with indefinitely. At the same time, she needed him for a sense of purpose. By herself she had nothing to accomplish, no identity. They needed the other to exist. He felt less hollow, alive again. How did he live without her?

Coming at last to the lip, he pulled himself up and began walking back, a spring in his step that had not been present before. Suddenly the world seemed a good deal more bright. By the time he had found his way back to the road night had fallen like a shroud. It was dark by the time he was back at the city, and he was forced to rely on the second hand light that spilled from the windows to make his way to the palace.

Surprisingly he wasn't challenged once, despite the lateness of the hour. He made his way to the castle, and, after the peaceful solitude of the streets was startled to find it abuzz with messengers and servants. He supposed it made sense. Nasuada had given them very little time to prepare.

He found his way to his room and sat in his chair, then suddenly felt very tired. One way or another, it would be over soon, and he felt worn out. Moving over to the bed he lay down, exhausted.

But try as he might, he couldn't find sleep. Still the faces of the men he had killed, the men he had watched die haunted him, refusing to let him find peace, evoking guilt and self-disgust. It was a long time before he found sleep, and his dreams were the worst king of nightmares, restless and wracked with guilt.

**I didn't plead, beg or cajole reviews from you last update, but do not take this as an invitation to stop. I take what meager sustenance I can through feedback, without which I waste away.**


	7. The Clouds are Gathering

**Disclaimer: Ownership is a human invention. In the eyes of the highest spiritual authority, Christopher doesn't own Inheritance any more then I do.**

**Chapter 6**

Horns sounded as the Varden prepared to march. It had not been as easy as either Nasuada or Eragon had expected, the problem being Feinstar had provided far too many distractions for the Varden's soldiers or sailors. When the Varden had conquered the city, it had already been full to bursting, with refugee's retreating to a more defensible location and deserters from the king's army who had made there way there. The streets had been crowded before occupation, with more arrivals coming every day, and vice and corruption following shortly behind.

Thieves flourished at everyone's expense, as did a black market trafficking things as simple as food and clothes, and even human life. Brothels sprang up across the city, as people without the means to otherwise support themselves were forced to sell their bodies and pride. And there were likewise places where darker passions could stir, where the brave or foolish could fight to the death over a handful of gold, or pursue other, darker vices.

Even before the Varden's occupation, the city watch, sorely undermanned for the task of policing a transient army and a horde of refugee's, while protecting the walls from an imminent invasion, had found it easier to take bribes and look the other way.

Now their problems were compounded by the fact that nobody seemed to be in charge. The watch didn't know who they were taking there orders from, what authority they actually had over the occupying soldiers or how to go about enforcing the law over the armed group. So they did nothing, and the Varden, always on a fine line between an army and a degenerate mob, began to sink still further.

"I don't care if the watch isn't any help." Nasuada sad angrily, rage making her voice shrill, "Why is nothing being done? Why aren't the officers doing something about this. I thought we instituted a military watch." She said, her eyes narrowing and her fingers steepling in front of her, her dark skin flushing angrily.

Martland shrugged. "Well, Nasuada," He began tentatively, "it's, uh, a, uh-"

Orrin leaned back on his chair. "What the good general is trying to say is that the officers are right alongside the men, infantry, cavalry and nobles alike; passed out in an alley somewhere or spending the day with a women who's affection and virtue is open to negotiation." He said, eyeing goblet full of wine reflectively. "Or something along those lines anyway. The invasion is floundering."

Nasuada didn't so much as twitch at the king's blunt analysis. "Then we need to get out of here as soon as possible." She said icily, then took a deep breath. "We will have to hasten our departure. Have the men available for inspection by highsun. Martland, since your men are facedown with Orrin's, you will gather the troops together. Understand?"

Martland nodded, but Orrin's narrowed. The king was not used to being given any orders, and had come to regret the rigid command structure he had agreed to. But he was wise enough to know that a confrontation here would be a mistake. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, his wine red cloak billowing behind him like the winds of some great bird.

Neither of the two leaders thought Nasuada's demands would be possible, but they didn't say so. Instead they made their way out of the palace and back to the city streets, and started a search for soldiers lucid and sober enough to serve as a military police.

Fortunately the two of them were far more successful then either had though possible, though the city did offer a myrid of distractions, the Varden's core members had been soldiers long enough to be mostly to experienced to fall prey to the vices while on campaign. Within twenty hours, most of the forces had been gathered to the south, many of them blinking blearily in the light or holding their heads and groaning. They were nothing like presentable, but their officers were forcing them into a semblance of order, and it would be only a shot time before they would be ready to march.

*****

Martland had been in the saddle for six hours since dawn, riding from encampment to encampment and preparing the army to march.

Roran had been one of the first men he had found. As he rarely drank to excess even when he was home, and had never even considered taking up other vices, he had watched the disintegration of the army with a certain sense of bewilderment. Why start now? After all, Feinstar offered nothing that couldn't be purchased in Surda. The price would be higher, of course, and each new debauchery wouldn't be advertised so openly, but he did not see how that made a difference.

Roran had been accepted gratefully by the Martland, and sent to find the men under his command. To that end he had wound his way through narrow, dirty alley's of Feinstar's harbor. Homeless refugees and resident beggars lined the streets, offering black market goods, or services, or simply begging for a few coins to get them through the day. The pleas touched his heart, but he had nothing to give them. He'd given most of his wealth to the poor the first day after the fighting ended; the rest had been stolen by cutpurses son after that. Katrina was looking the little he had kept.

Walking past the ragged children and diseased old men, the real victims of the war, he thought longingly of the austere simplicity of Palancar valley. Everyone knew their neighbors, and trusted each other. They weren't rich, but people would help the others get back on there feet if they couldn't make ends meet. He decided then and there that he didn't like cities. He looked up at the sky, but could see little of it. The dilapidated buildings on either side of the narrow alley leaned together so they blocked the sunlight completely. It's probably for the best, Roran decided bitterly. To much direct sun and the garbage clogging the streets would stink worse then it already did.

As quickly as he could, Roran walked the rest of the way down the alley towards the Urgals Head, a tavern where he had last seen Carn. The magician had filled his time by drinking it away, followed by most of the soldiers. Roran couldn't find the heart to blame them. Boredom and the pressure of war were enough to drive most people to the bottle.

The Urgals Head was a disreputable taverns disreputable tavern. It was a place that served those who had nowhere else to go, hadn't the coin to feed themselves and drank to forget. The place was small, cramped and dark, the floor was a layer of insect infested straw, the tables seemed so crude Roran felt it could only be intentional, and the Barman was a large, ham-fisted man who leered at everyone who came through the door and had a knotted cudgel close at hand. But it was cheap, had no standards, and was open well after any usual place would have closed. The perfect place for soldiers with nowhere to be.

As Roran came to the place, he noticed a thief riffling through the pockets of an unconscious soldier. Taking one look at Roran he scampered, for which he was profoundly grateful. He wasn't sure what he would have done had the thief held his ground.

Pushing open the door with a grating creak, he was forced to squint in the dim squalor of the place, the only light coming from sooty windows and sour-smelling tallow candles. The sound of raucous laughter and bawdy songs from a variety of sources mixed with jeers and swearing. Roran spotted a few rats darting around the room. Shuddering slightly, he went over to Carn who was sitting alone at a table, nursing a tarnished mug full of watery beer.

Carn looked up to see his friend and flicked his fingers in a clumsy salute. Roran looked a bit hagged, not that Carn cared. Right now, Carn was drunk. He had lost count of the number of watery pints he had drank, and he was feeling the worse for it. That was common since the siege had ended. It was common whenever he had nothing to occupy his time. It had been for nearly a year. Carn knew he was drinking too much, but that was another thing he couldn't make himself care about.

Carn drank to forget. At the moment he had done such a good job, he had forgotten what it was he was drinking to forget. Hand shaking slightly, he reached for the rusted stein to his left. It would be best to stay forgetful, just in case.

He knew what he was trying to blot out was bad. It was so terrible he had cut all ties, left his life behind and joined the Varden, made him want to spend the rest of his life fighting what had once been his home. For a second he wondered what it was, and the memories began to return, like vengeful ghosts.

In the depths of his mind, images flickered. A woman, plain faced and rosy cheeked, with a beautiful smile and auburn hair in a neat bun. Laughter. The smell of lilac and the sounds of children playing. A wife, children, little ones. All dead. Had he killed them? No. Was he responsible? No. He saw the face of a soldier, a crimson tabard stained dark, a sneer on his face and a scar on his chin. The stab of pain in his chest made him gasp. With a faint moan he reached for the tankard, but Roran stopped him.

Looking up out f the abyss with bleary eyes, bloodshot from the drinking and the time in the dark, Carn saw his friend shake his head. Carn grasped at it, but Roran didn't relent. At last he stopped and hung his head. A sob wrenched itself from deep in his chest, and then was followed by another, and another. His shoulders shaking, tears splattering on the straw, Carn let his pain pour out. He felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, a white-hot lancing pain as though someone was cutting out his heart. The memories kept flooding, until he felt he couldn't take anymore.

With a grunt, Roran helped him to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him towards the door. The sobbing had stopped, but Carn was still tremmoring, the memories refusing to stop. A vision of himself dead on a battlefield appeared, but Carn ignored it. With the brutal self-honesty that comes with drunkenness, Carn realized he'd long since stopped caring. He didn't much care about anything, not since he'd joined the Varden. He was a walking corpse, his life had burned out long ago. All that was left was the anger, and the pain that never seemed to go away, no matter how much he drank.

*****

The Urgals were still nowhere to be seen, having departed to the nearby foothills shortly after the siege's conclusion, with only Nar Garzhvog and the Kull that had joined the Nighthawks remaining with the rest of the Varden. Garzhvog said he would call his people when the time came to march, and Nasuada seemed to have accepted that.

The dwarves had ignored the muster, remaining in their silent camp to the East of the city, with only Orik and a few runners ever leaving or even being spotted. With only a few hours before inspection, and the sun already high in the sky, Orrin had decided to go and get them roused personally. Taking his usual retinue of officials and diplomats, he made his way to the rugged foothills where the dwarves had made their camp.

Before they had reached the first tent, they saw the army. Hundreds upon hundreds of short, stocky dwarven soldiers marched in precise ranks. The bright sunlight glinted off their polished armor and the keen blades of their weapons. Orrin noted with some surprise that the camp was already packed, just the frame's and canvas of the tents remaining upright.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Said a voice that it took Orrin a second to recognize. Turning slowly he noted Orik seated in a splayed fashion on a rocky outcrop he had passed. Orrin nodded, noticing that the dwarf was in full military apparel, down to his vambraces and sabatons. A massive horned helm guarded his head and face, with the cheekguards hiding everything except his alert blue eyes and beaky nose, and a dark wool cape hung over his shoulders despite the heat.

Orrin nodded, impressed by the organization of the troops and the well-trained discipline they presented. "You make them drill in full armor?" He asked as they got nearer to the formation. He knew from experience that the hot, early summer sun would be devastating on the iron-clad soldiers.

Orik let out a short, barking laugh. "How do you expect them to fight in armor if they don't train in armor?"

"But the sun. The heat will-"

Orik snorted. "It will be most likely sunny on the first day of battle. The lads will be glad enough then." He was silent at that, and Orrin was left to consider this new testament to the dogged perseverance of the Dwarves. Stopping on the edge of the parade-ground, he cupped his mailed fingers and held them to his mouth. "Watch this." He shouted, then raised his right arm. A nearby Herald holding a banner with the insignia of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum noted the King's signal, and waved the banner in a complicated series of patterns. Instantly the nearby drummers took up a new tempo, and the army rushed into a deep line four dwarves deep. As the front rank linked shields and readied their axes, forming a defensive wall, the back three ranks quickly drew and strung short horn bows, then carefully notched arrows and sighted along the shafts, while the front rank kneeled, allowing them to pick their targets. The dwarves made it look easy, but the strength to string the bows and move in the heavy armor would have made it all but impossible for humans in so short a time.

Orik nodded contentedly, high praise indeed from him, and brought his arm down in a chopping motion. A new cadence was sounded, and the dwarves unstrung and stowed their bows, slung the shields of their backs and retrieved their axes. The drumbeat changed yet again, and the line of dwarves broke of into four large squares, each thirty dwarves across and thirty dwarves deep, bristling with blades.

Orrin, caught up in this display of amazing military training, suddenly noticed that Orik was staring at him, obviously expecting an assessment. Orrin nodded slightly, then realized Orik was still staring and forced a smile. "Very impressive." He said at last. "I wish we had more of your people." Orik beamed and inclined his head, then gestured yet again at the herald, who lowered his flag. The drumbeat changed again, and the dwarves returned to their regular drills. The squares broke into columns, and the dwarves resumed marching.

Satisfied with the display, Orik turned his full attention towards the Surdan king, seeming to dismiss the marching soldiers behind him. "So when do we march?" He asked gruffly, fiddling with his helmet as though trying to adjust a strap. "We about ready yet?"

Orrin stared down at the dwarf. "Actually, that's why I am here. We're preparing for inspection, and your people still haven't arrived."

"Don't worry lad. We'll be there." He said, finishing with his helmet and letting his arms fall to his sides. "But how long until we march?"

"Nasuada says tomorrow."

Orik nodded at this, then began to turn. "Well then your majesty, mine people and I will be there shortly. You see to it that your people are prepared, and I'll see to mine." With that he turned, leaving Orrin unsure if he'd just been insulted or complemented.

*****

Orik made his way through the skeleton of the dwarvish camp, watching unconcernedly as around him dwarves busied themselves stowing goods and filling packs for the long march ahead. The tents themselves were a uniform slate grey, set out in neat, orderly rows a far cry from the disorganized sprawl of any human encampment. Palisade had been carefully erected around the place in case of attack, and the tents were in neat, orderly rows, gear was kept in tidy pile, and even the inevitable rubbish heap was kept contained in a tiny enclosure. Dwarves at war prided themselves on efficiency.

The dwarves he passed clasped their fists to their chests in a warrior's salute, and inclined their heads. Orik returned the gesture, but did not slow his pace. He had an appointment to keep. Coming at last to centre of the camp he walked around his own impressive cloth-of-gold pavilion to an adjoining tent, made of expertly cured leather and engraved with twisting patterns, great swirls and twists that hurt the eye if stared at too long.

Taking a second to compose himself, Orik straightened his armor and gripped Volund, then pushed aside the flap and marched in. Incense filled the space with a faint blue fog, rising wispily from three small braziers. The tent was enormous, large enough for thirty dwarves to sleep quite comfortably. The space was dominated by an enormous alter over which loomed a statue of an equally enormous mighty warrior with a hammer clasped in each hand, each resembling Volund down to the tiniest detail. The figure was recognizably a dwarf, and was bare-chested, showing great rippling muscles and an enormous beard. Orik muttered a quick prayer under his breath as he beheld the statue. It showed all the dwarven genius for stonework. It was carved with a level of detail no human sculptor would have the patience or skill to master. The Varden had said they were mad, transporting the statue, but the alternative would be far worse. Going to war without the favor of the gods would be disastrous. Orik finished his prayer, then looked up at the other dwarf.

Gannel was simply dressed in a simple red robe, unarmed with no ornaments save two large gold clips in his beard that showed the sign of crossed axes. He had remained kneeled in prayer when Orik had arrived, and showed no sign of relenting, continuing to murmur dwarvish under his breath, his eyes tightly closed. At last he rose to his feet and turned abruptly, not as a man would leave a shrine to his god, but in the manner of a warrior who has been given an order by his general and goes to carry it out. Turning to face Orik he inclined his head, and then gestured to the right, were a thick pile of rugs took the place of a seat.

Orik's feelings about Gannel were complicated. The dwarf could be extremely cold, even by the standards of his gruff race, and was impossible to understand. For a long time, Orik had been slightly bitter towards Gannel for voting against him, but in truth he didn't blame the older dwarf. Gannel had done what he thought was right, picked the candidate he thought was best for his people, just as he always did. He had since done anything in his power to help Orik without bitterness or hard feelings.

"Any sign?" Orik asked, seating himself gratefully. Gannel lowered himself beside him, smoothing his robes as he did so, then shook his head.

"Gûntera gives no sign. The gods will have no stake in this war. It is ours to win or loose." Gannel replied, his hooded eyes impassive and his manner relaxed.

Orik sighed. It was what he had expected, but he had hoped they would have something for him. A message, a sign, anything to let him know his cause was right. But they were silent, keeping their own counsel.

"What do you think I should do?"

"I think you have made the right decision, or I wouldn't be here. This must be decided, with or without the god's direct intervention." Gannel replied, taking a jug and pouring himself a tankard of a thick, black mixture. Taking it in a few gulps he smacked his lips appreciatively then blew on his hands, despite the stifling heat of the tent.

He offered it to Orik, who sniffed it then recoiled.

"What is that?" He spluttered.

Gannel grinned wryly. "That is Hourmis. Us wizards brew it, when we have time. Helps steady your nerves and keeps you awake, keeps you warm in anything short of a blizzard, and keeps your mind sharp. It also makes it easier to access your magic, and gives you a bit more power to use." He made a face. "Takes the tarnish off silver too."

Orik removed his helmet, shaking his head. "So what should we do?" He asked, returning to the matter a hand. Gannel looked at him, almost pityingly. It must be nice, Orik mused, to have no doubts, to always be certain.

"Continue as we have. The gods gave us the ability to make our own decisions and our hearts to let us know what is right. They made us thus so we would not be there playthings, but their heirs, to shape this world as we desire." Gannel said, effortlessly recounting scripture to fit the moment, then continued. "Orik, I have studied the mysteries of the gods my entire life, and they remain a mystery. There are some things we are not meant to understand. Do as you believe is right, and don't fear being considered wrong."

Orik shrugged. "And what of the other gods? Those of the humans?"

Gannel shook his head "The gods are not something we mortals can understand. How can we? So we have made them like a dwarf, like something we can understand. Is it their true nature? How can we know? How can we know what it is they wants? They made the earth, gave it to us and all the people, made us equal without distinction, just as they gave us souls, as they gave us life and breath and freedom. They made no laws, no decrees. They set no boundaries, none of them ever spoke to our ancestors or whispered long lost secrets in their ear. He who forged the chains of mountains, who established the bounds of lands under the sun and poured the sea's from their earthen vessel, never commanded anything of us." Gannel shook his head, and gestured at a rack of scrolls behind the rug. "They are legends, and so many of us accept them as reality while ignoring what they really mean. It is the teachings that matter, not the stories." Gannel said, then walked over to the alter and added another brazier of incense. "Only those who know themselves to be flawed scoff at the gods, thinking that by denying them they can deny judgment. They are fools. We are all accountable for our actions, from the greatest king to the poorest beggar. Does he pass judgment? Or is it as the elves say, all meaningless. Is their good and evil, or simply chaos and power? I think you know the answer very well, Orik." Gannel ended, and with that returned to the rug, his impromptu sermon over.

Orik nodded slowly. "So is this war right or wrong?"

"It's as I said. Ask your heart. Do you think your actions to be fair and just? If so then forget your doubts. We Knurla came for our honor, for justice, but more importantly, because you are our king and you led us. We believe in you, and that is enough." Gannel replied, his face impassive, but his eyes crinkling as though in smile. "Hrothga would be proud of you, boy." He finished, then sat back, inhaling the smoke of the incense with a content expression on his face. His eyes began fluttering as he began his meditation.

"Gannel, I-"

Gannel shook his head again, but didn't open his eyes. "You were chosen as king for a reason. That reason is simple: you are brave enough to do what needs to be done. Do not doubt, that way leads to compromise with evil, and eventually to evil itself. Be not the tree, bending in the gale, but be the mountain, strong and unyielding. Look to your own heart, not that of others." With that Gannel took out a pipe, which he lit with a muttered word. Orik opened his mouth again, then closed it when he realized he didn't have anything else to say.

Orik stayed there for a while, thinking. He doubted he would grow to be half as wise as Gannel. At last he rose, made a cursory bow to the statue, and left. He had a war to prepare.

**Long chapter to make up for the previous one. If you like the story, review. If you don't like the story, review. If you see a way for the story to improve, review. Please, review. Hell, even if you have questions about my take on the characters or plot, review.**


	8. The Lines are drawn up

**Chapter 7**

**All the characters with screen time in this are mine. So this much, at least, I do own.**

Most of The Empire's settlements had been created by the same natural forces that had created its forests, mountains and rivers. Dras-Leona, for example, had been forged by the stone of the great peaks of the Helgrind. It had been a small town until deposits of iron were found under the mountains, at which point it been swelled by miners and craftsmen until it became the industrial capital of The Empire, and what had been simple veneration for the source of their livelihoods had become a fanatic religion.

Terim, on the other hand, had been formed by the flow of the river and the gentle lapping of the ocean. It's calm waters and hidden bay had drawn the first settlements of smugglers and pirates, and then their comrades, who opened bars and brothels, and then the merchants and artisans the burgeoning community had needed, until the criminals had become merchants themselves.

Even Urû'baen was built on the ruins of an Elven city, and it's sheer cliffs had made it a natural fortress for the first ragged hunters who stumbled across it, and their ancestors had dwelled their ever since, using the nearby river to conduct trade, and the valuable farmland around it to become rich.

Beletona was the only city in The Empire shaped by pure, unadulterated politics. It guarded no mountain pass, no rich farmland, no religion found relevance in it and only one, almost irrelevant trade route passed through it.

The city had been built when Surda had been declared part of the Broddring kingdom, as a place on fairly neutral ground where the lords and king of the time could meet. It was out of the way, and sparsely populated, but this was good, as none of them trusted the others not to bring an army. Eventually, when this was no longer a necessary precaution, the city sat empty, relatively purposeless until it had been rebuilt as a vast prison to store undesirables a century before the fall of the Riders. Now? It was the keep where Galbatorix kept the majority of his Southern garrison, and the watch-post for Surda.

It was built atop a flat-topped hill, surrounded by nothing but blasted stone and wasted soil, so thin that the bedrock could be felt beneath it. From the city you could see for miles around, a tactic of the old empire: never let anyone sneak up on you. It watched the skies above as well as the ground below.

Along the rugged hills surrounding it trotted a retinue of knights, each mounted on proud white horses, high-fettled and glossy-maned, their flanks grey with the grime and dust of the road, coating the steel barding of archaic design. Their riders were equally impressive, each tall and broad shouldered, in full plate-armor and long cloaks, their long, ashen spears slung low at their horses sides, long blades of folded steel on their hips.

Most distinctive of all was the steel masks they all wore, totally featureless save for the eyeslits. Each of the knights had a bearing that suggested total confidence and pride, and many who happened to see them as they passed by touched wood or salt to ward off bad omen. They were the Domiavard, the kings personal soldiers. They had no identities, no families. They could not be bribed, or threatened, and feared only failing their master. They did not seem to have names. They even looked identical. Many of the more superstitious breathed that they weren't men at all, but demons the King had summoned from some twisted abyss with sorcery too dark to mention.

But even they did not have quite the presence of their fearsome leader, who rode a great coal-black charger, the finest of imperial stock, that champed and whinnied as it moved, seeming oddly tireless. The rider himself was enormous, his every movement as easy and graceful as a lion stalking it's prey. His armor was gilt and decorated, but thick enough to turn away a direct sword-stroke, and he disdained a helmet, allowing his black, square-cut mane to stream in the wind like a pendant.

All of them felt worn out to the ends of endurance, fatigue taking a toll, but none of them let it show. They had made the ride from Urû'baen in just under two weeks, changing horses at every garrison and sleeping in the saddle, eating only a few bites when strictly necessary, and never stopping for more then a few moments, to ensure they got to their destination in time. And now, looking over the city, they felt a flutter of triumph in their chests.

Meric smiled as he looked down at the city that had become a fortress. This would do very nicely. Belatona was only a city in terms of population and density of structures. It was more of a permanent military camp, the buildings devoted entirely to defense. The city had a Hexagonal shaped outer wall more then forty feet high, that was wide enough for a troop of soldiers to march six abreast along it's length. Each corner of the wall was further fortified into a fortress itself, containing it's own barracks, armory and storerooms. The cities two gates were likewise fortified with imposing gatehouses that could rain death on any attempt to break through their iron-banded doors. As his retinue drew closer to the gates, a horn sounded mournfully and the massive portals swung open.

Within minutes Meric was riding beneath the arch of the southwest gate and into a narrow tunnel. Heavy stone blocks seemed to press in from either side, and he made out narrow arrow-slits and murder holes on each side. After ten yards the passage narrowed sharply to the right, then back to the left again. Unlike most cities, the streets were laid out in neat, orderly lines. Making good time he made his way to the fortress, ignoring the stares he attracted on the way.

A troop of soldiers kept watch at the drawbridge that led to the castle, their faces impassive and their wicked looking halberds held ready.

Attendants and servants hurried from an adjoining stable as his escort slipped heavily from their stables. Meric remained motionless, moving only to check the long object strapped to the saddle wrapped in layers of cloth. Running a possessive hand over it, he was sorely tempted to remove it and buckle it to his belt. But he resisted. Not yet. Wit a deep sigh he instead removed the axe from a loop in his stallions saddle and clutched in his right hand. As he did so there was a clatter of steps as a young noble dashed from the tower towards him, stopping up short a few spear lengths away.

Meric could well imagine the thoughts going through the youth's head. His armor shone like silver and was filigreed with gold, and his retinue were Galbatorix's personal guard. Yet he wore no livery or crest and held no banner to identify himself. Instead he clutched the hilt of a well-worn battle-axe, scarred and pitted from use. The boy probably thinks I'm Galbatorix's own executioner, come to dispense the king's justice, Meric thought, then chuckled. In that, he's almost correct.

"Where is Duke Almar and his General?" Meric asked curtly, his voice giving no hint of the strain the weeks hard riding had caused.

The young nobles widened slightly. "I…he… that is they, the council are in session-"

"Excellent. Take me there." He replied, his eyes narrowing alarmingly.

The young noble looked slightly ashen. "But nobody… That is, perhaps you would care for some refreshment first?"

"Did I ask for refreshment?" He snapped, dismounting and handing his reigns to one of the knights. He held the axe loosely in his hands. "Take me to your master, now."

The noble nodded weakly. Turning on his heel he strode to the tower occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Meric. Smiling wolfishly the big man followed, the axe still clutched in his fist. The knights dismounted and followed silently behind.

Duke Almar's council chambers lay very near the top of the keep, which did nothing to improve Meric's mood. The climb, up narrow, twisting stairways and dimly lit, bustling corridors seemed to last for hours. By the time the noble finally led Meric to the top of the stairs he was entirely out of patience. Pushing the noble out of the way he came to the imposing double doors he put his boot against the oak and kicked for all he was worth.

The oaken doors swung open, rebounding off the wall with a thunderous bang. Everyone present in the room beyond leapt to their feet, with startled shouts and curses. Meric strode in, catching the recoiling door with the hilt of his axe and stopping it with a hollow clang.

The chamber was surprisingly small and cramped, dominated by a broad table covered with a layer of maps, notes, wine goblets and half eaten meals. Two dozen men dressed in comfortable clothes with soft hands stared up at his intrusion, and four more guards moved towards him, stepping carefully around the nobles, the spearheads of their halberds aimed for his throat.

Duke Almar stared at Meric with small, bright black eyes. His long face was marked with dozens of minor pockmarks, and scraggly dark hairs forming a crude approximation of a beard. He had all the military bearing of a weasel, and a petulant turn to his lips that put Meric in mind of a sulking child. At his right hand stood a towering, lanky figure in chainmail, with a crest marked out over his chest, above the heart. He was older then Meric, but not so old as to leave service in search of a quieter life. His skin was darkened by years of exposure from campaigning in the field, and his long curved sword was studded with gems. He was bald as an egg, his right ear had been torn off completely, and his left cheek was scarred and crumpled, lending his features a horrid, unbalanced cast.

"What is your name?" The general snarled. "I want to know what to write on your gravestone!"

"I am Meric of the Iron Keep." Meric replied coldly, adjusting his grip on the axe. Behind him his escort fanned out, their mailed gloves beginning to draw their swords. The guards took a threatening step forward, but suddenly seemed a lot less sure of themselves.

"Kialandí's bastard?" The man exclaimed, drawing a shocked gasp from all those present. "The kinslayer?"

Meric nodded once. "Galbatorix's champion." He said, as though correcting a mistake, and walked past the guards, who had hurriedly backed off at the general's pronouncement. "Our glorious majesty has seen fit to put my well-known talents to good use in organizing our defense here."

The duke scoffed, but no one joined him. "Let me be the judge of that." He said darkly. "How do I know the king has truly entrusted you? I suppose he has provided you with a writ detailing your responsibilities as proof of you claims."

Meric eyed the man. He was small, not fat so much as soft round the edges, with thinning hair and poor posture. His eyes squinted painfully, and he moved with all the grace and finesse of an arthritic grandfather. The general ran things, and he knew it. His one source of power was paperwork, which he took very seriously. The Duke should have been born a clerk, not a ruler, or even better, died a spoiled child.

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a small, iron object that glinted dully as he threw it across the table, until it came to rest before the duke. Picking it up he examined it, and then gasped. It was an iron ring inlaid with a stylized sword. The kings signet ring.

"Still, this proves…" He began weakly, and then was brought up short as Meric took the axe and slammed it into the table with a thunderous crack, making the assembled councilors gasp. The table jumped violently, then settled, now with a long, deep crack running through it, the axe solidly imbedded in the table, it's vibrating handle giving off a faint humming noise, until Meric stilled it with his open hand. Dead silence.

"If you have anything further to add, save it for the king when he gets here." Meric said shortly, ignoring the gasps that sounded from around the room. Turning his attention to the general, whose hand was once more wrapped around the hilt of his sword, Meric's eyes narrowed still further. "You would be Kaul?" Meric asked, his green eyes fixing on the generals blue ones.

The general nodded. "Bramar Kaul."

"Well, Kaul, I have come a long way in a short time to pass on a message." Meric replied, as worried murmurs began spreading around the room. Kaul straightened at the news, the muscles bulging at the sides of his scarred jaws. Whatever his failings, the general was not a coward. "Very well." The general replied. "Lets hear it then."

Meric nodded formerly, the first respect to convention he'd given since his arrival, and continued. "As you wish. Your lord and master has watched your efforts in repelling the Varden, and he is most displeased with what he has heard and seen. More then that, he is disappointed."

The murmurs that had been present since Meric's arrival intensified, and the duke gasped. The general, however, went white with rage. "And what would Galbatorix have me do?" he cried. "Meet them on the field and leave Belatona undefended?" He snatched a pile of parchments and threw them at Meric, who didn't so much as blink. "Has he read my scouts reports? Has he heard what happened in Feinstar? You expect us to rank up on the open field and try to defeat them? We would be completely over run! They outnumber us more then five to one! Our only hope of victory is to let them break against our walls."

The assembled councilors listened and nodded, casting uneasy glances between the two of them, but Meric was unimpressed. "Feinstar. I understand that you had knowledge of the Varden's offensive two weeks before the city fell. And yet you made no attempt to lift the siege. No, you cowered in you rabbit-hole while they slaughtered hundreds of troops who manned the walls expecting reinforcements that never arrived. You trembled here to preserve your own skin, making excuses for your cowardice, and will now leave us open to the Varden's offensive, and Surdan raids for years to come."

"The Varden must overcome us if they want to advance any further into the Empire." Kaul shot back. "Here we are in a position of strength!"

"Are you? I recall that almost a third of your standing garrison is made up of cavalry. What use will they be in a protracted siege, unless you want to send the cavalrymen to the walls and their mounts to the kitchens." Meric replied, remaining calm despite the generals fury. "You have a powerful, and above all, mobile force at your command, Kaul, but you lack the courage to put it to the test against a bunch of farmers, savages and thugs. You hoped to tremble behind these walls and wait for the king to come and save you. That is not how we fight. We are the Empire, our enemies fear us, not the other way around. This is our country, and we make invaders pay for every painful step they take onto our soil. That is how the state responds when animals trespass on our domain."

A muscle twitched above Kaul's eye. "You dare call me a coward?" He shouted, slamming his fist against the table. "I've commanded legions for thirty years, I've led more raids then I can count, I've bled for the Empire, and I know what we are capable of. If you had an ounce of sense you'd see that this fortress was built to resist such an attack as they're planning. The only sensible course of action is to conserve our forces and prepare for the coming onslaught."

Meric shook his head. "Kaul, I call you nothing. I speak with the King's voice, and he calls you nothing more then a failure. You are not fit for your command. But I am choosing to believe that you are merely a fool, and not a traitor. You should be grateful. You're going to survive."

Kaul drew his sword with a roar, but was interrupted by the four guards, who could see which way the wind was blowing. "You now answer to me. Your army is placed under my command, the cities resources are mine to distribute. The duke can consider himself temporarily relieved while this situation is put under control." Meric said, his eyes making it very clear that this would be permanent, but the Duke couldn't find the courage to voice his complaints. Interbred little coward. "Kaul, consider yourself under house arrest until I've decided what to do with you." Meric finished disinterestedly, his fierce eyes settling upon the nobles who were exchanging shocked glances. He felt he'd made his impression.

Kaul snarled, but Meric was unmoved. "I could have you whipped within an inch of your life." He observed dryly, as the guards escorted him out. "Even executed. But I won't. I can be cruel, but I try to be fair. Everyone should have an opportunity to make up for past mistakes. Don't you agree gentlemen?" He directed the final point to the assembled nobles, who hastily nodded as though he was being magnanimous, and at that moment Meric knew they wouldn't dare give him any trouble.

For a moment he savored the silence that hung over the room, and he picked up a half finished goblet and gulped it down. Wiping his mouth with the back of an armored greave, he stared at the surrounding councilors and cocked his head. The knights fanned out further still until they surrounded everyone present, their masks impassive, but threatening.

"Now as my first official command I want a bottle of good wine brought out. Then you can tell me who you all are and what it is you do. " He said, smiled wolfishly and rested his chin on his fist.

**Well there we go. The plot is finally moving along. Thank you to the people who have reviewed. Now, I'm trying to write a battle scene you'll be getting in a few weeks. If anyone has any advice on how to do it please tell me as I am struggling with getting it right and by helping you'll get a better standard of end result.**


	9. Question and Answers

**Chapter 8**

**I don't own Inheritance. I suppose I'll have to make up my own series then. Where's the fun in that?**

As usual, the walk to the king's keep was deserted. Murtagh had been still, staring at the silent corridor for nearly an hour, waiting for the inevitable meeting. Part of him was furious that he was being made to wait, but a colder, more rational part of his brain told him to stop complaining. He should be glad the king was ignoring him.

It was close to midnight when he had been awoken by a presence in his mind. He had franticly raised defenses, but he shouldn't have bothered. The king swept them aside with contemptuous ease, then continued his inspection. Finally he said curtly Come to the tower, and ended the link, leaving Murtagh gasping in a cold sweat.

He had dressed silently but quickly, and walked through the halls towards the keep, his mind awhirl with trepidation and fear. He spotted the occasional servant running errands for their master, and a man sneaking out in a suspicious-looking hooded cloak. At first he took the man for one of the king's assassins or magicians, but soon realized that wasn't the case. They were probably quite good at sneaking, where this figure had managed to step on every creaking floorboard and rubbed his back so close to the stonework it le out a dull scrape. Probably just a lord or noble out to see his mistress.

He had come to the hallway that led to the keep, then stopped as he had sensed the defensive spells were still active. So he waited, expecting to be allowed in any moment. He was still waiting an hour later.

A slim figure glided up behind him. When he was next to Murtagh a pale hand reached up and pulled back his hood, exposing a long pale face, softly handsome, if a bit worn and hardened, and long ears tapering into points. His almond eyes slanted up, and his chin was pointed like a knife. Long blond hair like spun gold framed his face. Murtagh gaped.

"You're… You're an elf!" Mutagh said.

The figure turned to stare at him, his slanted eyes narrowing slightly. Beneath the cloak, the elf was dressed in a formless tunic and simple breeches, which he wore like an emperor's robes. A simple band of beaten gold held back his hair, and his pale skin seemed to glow in the murk. Murtah had seen a few elves, Oromis most recently, and had come to know Arya during his time with the Varden, though she had remained fairly mysterious and secretive about her emotions. But they were still a mystery to him, and to see one here seemed faintly unreal.

The elf finished his assessment and returned his gaze to the hallway ahead, leaving Murtagh even more confused. Lowering his mental defenses reluctantly, he let out a slight probe of his conscious that sought out Thorn's mind. To his surprise he was unable to find anything, even a shielded conscious. For a moment he mentally flailed desperately, like a man who has just realized he is missing an arm, then he withdrew back into the safety of his own mind, worrying. He had wanted Thorn's advice and opinion, but his absence was far more worrying then the silent presence beside him.

Murtagh suddenly remembered Shuriken snapping at the smaller dragon, and shuddered, feeling more afraid then he had ever been in his life. He would know, wouldn't he? Surely he would. But… No. Thorn would be fine. He had to believe that, like he had to continue breathing.

Trying to take his mind off the dark thoughts and worry that had risen to dominate his conscious, Murtagh turned to stare at the figure beside him.

"Who are you?" He asked, but got no reply. The elf didn't so much as twitch, as Murtagh stared at him, expectant. His face was serene, his eyes slightly clouded, and his thin fingers clutching his belt. Murtagh noticed they were in easy reach of the curved blades on either hip.

"Who are-" Murtagh tried again, but the elf cut over the top of him. "I am Evendir." He said, his voice curiously deep and rolling, seeming at odds with his delicate build. He turned to stare at Murtagh again, seemingly tired of ignoring him, keeping his face totally blank.

"How did an elf come to serve Galbatorix? I thought your people were his sworn enemies." Murtagh asked, his natural curiosity overcoming his anger at being ignored.

Evendir gave a small, secretive smile. "I am not an elf."

"Really," Murtagh said, taking in Evendir's long blond hair, slanting almond eyes, inhuman build and long ears tapering into points. "How do you figure that?"

Evaendir let go of his belt and held out his arms, holding himself open. "I am a Sûndavar Vinr, a dark one. I have been renounced by my people, and I have done the same to them. I am forsaken, unable to return to my homeland or speak to my people. To ensure this would remain the case, they entered my mind and removed some of my memories. I have no loyalty or sympathy to them. Indeed, quite the opposite." Evendir replied simply.

Murtagh was shocked. The matter-of–fact way he described the event added an extra dimension of horror to them.

"What did you do?"

Evendir shrugged letting his arms fall limply to his sides. "That is one of the memories they stole. All I know is I am an outcast. I do not know why. But I do know that my king has made use of me, has given me the purpose and home they stole." He turned back to survey the hall, leaving Murtagh intensely confused.

He heard a tapping noise ahead long before he saw anything. A shadow detached itself from the murk around the door that led to the keep, gliding towards them until it stopped at last, and began to adjust itself into a figure. Tarascus stared at the two of them, then limped past, his right leg dragging behind, leaning heavily on a staff of oak topped with a uncut ruby.

The gem looked about the size of a man's head, and appeared quite real and unflawed. In contrast, Tarascus was clad in a simple woolen tunic, breeches and hose that would have looked just as well placed on a beggar or peasant, rather then his usual velvet robes. His grey hair hung lank and untidy, and his eyes smoldered like a dormant volcano. Staring at the elf for a second, his eyes widening alarmingly, he said softly "The king wishes your company. Leave us." As the elf glided away, he turned his unsettling gaze on Murtagh. "Come." He said at last, turning and made his way up the stairs that led towards the throne room, his right leg twisted to the side and seeming fleshless and far too short, the deformity painfullynoticeable. With some trepidation, Murtagh followed.

At first the rider assumed they were following the path he always did, the long winding way that led to the towers peak. But at the third floor the magician paused, then turned off, leading Murtagh past the king's library and then through a baffling series of corridors he that at last led to a heavy door.

It was the sort of door that belongs on a battlement, that requires a batting ram to force open, and yet it swung it noiselessly at Tarascus's slightest touch. Stepping through he beckoned once to Murtagh then turned.

Tarascus's room was a curious mix of order and chaos. Neat shelving lined the walls, filled with tomes, scrolls and manuscripts. Some were new and well preserved, some were old and crumbling, several were bound in leather with clasps of silver, and one in what was either poor quality vellum or cured human skin.

A heavy table of rough, unrefined wood, cluttered with clay bowls filled with everything from crystal clear water to nuggets of gold to a squirming mass of insects. On every available surface papers strewed haphazardly, covered with scrawlings in some alien language, short and spiky. Next to the bookcases shelves filled all available space, crowded with bundles of herbs and flasks and jars. Nothing was labeled; either Tarascus had memorized where everything was or he could identify herbs at a glance.. At the end of the room was a door that was slightly ajar. Murtagh got a sense of something beyond that portal, and shuddered, unwilling or unable to dwell on it.

"Take a seat." Tarascus hissed, indicating to one of the three chairs. Murtagh sat, brushing aside a few open scrolls, one of which looked like a crudely drawn map of Alagaësia. Tarascus did the same, seating himself on an armchair next to the shelves. Steepling his fingers he looked over them at Murtagh, shaking his head slightly. His right leg didn't seem to bend very well, Murtagh noticed.

"What is the first law of magic?" He asked, his voice a dry croak. Murtagh wondered at the man. His face was prematurely aged, lean and emaciated, and generically unhealthy. He looked like he'd caught the wasting sickness, but somehow survived. His hair was grey, and shot with silver at the temples, and despite his thin, wasted build, he carried himself like a man who bestrides the world. He could be thirty or seventy, or anywhere in between.

"A magician is limited by his knowledge of the ancient language, and the energy in his body. If he oversteps this line he dies." Murtagh replied confidently. "Unless he has Eldunari, or the knowledge to draw power from other sources." He amended, still watching Tarascus. The magician terrified him, in way even the king was incapable of.

"Really? And how is the energy determined?" Tarascus asked emotionlessly, still watching the Rider, his lined face inscrutable. "By the strength of his body. One cannot perform feats with magic he couldn't perform through hard labor."

At this Tarascus lowered his arms. "Then explain the Elundari. They each possess a well of power, that recharges over time as though they were alive, and yet their bodies are long gone. Burned to ash." Murtagh opened his mouth to reply, but Tarascus continued on. "What of Spirits, beings with no corporeal form, who may only affect the world through magic? Why is it many magicians struggle to cast a single spell, yet men frailer then them bring about the same effect with ease? The last, in part can be explained by the forces they work with, A greater understanding of the forces at work, or even a simple understanding of leverage. And yet in identical positions the same forces come to some easier. Why?"

Murtagh shrugged. Some of these questions had occurred to him before, but he'd never questioned it. Magic was unknowable by its very definition. It followed laws of its own, to use it was to bend reality. When Tarascus continued staring at him, Murtagh licked his lips. "I don't know." He said.

"Few do. The answer is more obvious then many expect. Magic has nothing to do with physical power. Rather it is an act of will, harnessing your energy, your life-force if you like. Living beings can no more harness magic as a force then stop breathing. We can simply work through it. Magic itself is as intangible as smoke, yet through waving our hands we can create ripple that form shapes. Or at least, we can't through the ancient language."

Murtagh blinked slowly. "So what?" He asked. "What difference does it make knowing this?"

"Everything. It is not simply about what you can do, it is what you can force yourself to do. I have seen men claw through stone if given the right motivations. Magic is how much pain you can accept, what you can force yourself to give up." Spreading his arms wide, he chuckled. "Look at me! This shell is weak, pathetic, broken. And yet it is my strength, for I have lived with pain every second of my life, I have struggled to do things that you found easy. And I can make myself suffer with ease." He said, passion shining in his eyes, his pained face twisted by a look of almost sexual ecstasy as he ranted.

"It is through suffering that we find power, through pain and dedication. Spend your power freely, for it shall be replenished." He said, his fingers turning white as he gripped the sides of his chair.

Murtah felt like backing away, but a small part of him was swept up in Tarascus's words. "Do you understand?" He asked, his eyes boring into Murtaghs. The rider nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Good. Then you are ready." Tarascus said with inhuman passion, standing up in a sudden, jerky movement, and moving over to the table. Picking up a bowl, he muttered "Brisingr," and it erupted with a blue flame. Turning back he returned to his chair. "The king wants you ready. You have survived battles, but now war looms around us. You will face spell weavers with more experience then you can hope to have. I am to teach you unconventional means in which to overcome them. What do you wish to know?"

Murtagh moved uncomfortably. "I don't know." He said, though as he did a multitude of possible questions arose in his mind.

Tarascus grunted. "Good. That is the first step to wisdom, admit you do not know, and then search for the answer. How many Elundari has the king given you?" He said, his passion overcome by a strange tone Murtagh couldn't place and wasn't sure he liked. He was always wary when Tarascus got in one of these moods. Normally he would simply give Murtagh a list or a scroll to memorize, mock him mercilessly in a jaded, cynical voice and send him on his way, but occasionally a strange passion would overcome him that made Murtagh feel he should be running away.

Once he had given the Rider two minutes to prepare his wards and then hit him with a range of death spells, the results leaving Murtagh gasping on the ground with a burning pain in his neck unable to feel the left side of his body. Another time he had forced Murtagh to think his way around a number of hypothetical attacks, most of which were fatal, and the forced him to put his strategies into action, one at a time then all at once. He dreaded these occurrences even more then the occasional bout with the king, because at least Galbatorix would hold back enough to keep him alive.

But Tarascus was not stable, not by any stretch of the word. If Murtagh was ever unable to summon up an at least adequate defense, the magician would leave him dead. To Tarascus he wasn't valuable, he wasn't even useful. He was just another apprentice, and even talented magicians had a habit of dying horribly in the magicians classes. And yet the king kept him. Because as dangerous as he was, there was no one else who could get the same results.

He had a hand in training most of the Empire's magicians, and it was doubtless his influence that instilled the fanaticism in them. Galbatorix could twist people around his little finger, but Tarrascus was an artist, priding himself of finding the breaking-strain of people, chipping away at identity's and personalities until they were as mad as he was.

"Three." Murtagh replied. Tarascus nodded. "And can you control them all at once, or must you draw on them separately?"

"One or two at a time." Murtagh replied, not liking this line of questioning.

Tarascus pursed his lips. "And yet you can still be overcome by your brother and his pet spellcasters."

A retort died on Murtagh's lips as he gazed into the burning intensity of Tarascus's eyes. Instead he nodded mutely.

"So to rectify this you must find alternative means of power. You can of course draw upon the life-force of your soldiers, but so can he. That road leads nowhere. You could store power in gems, but that too is far to limiting. Oh, it works alright if you have a centuary to prepare, but how often is that? You must be ready to fight at a moments notice. So what other means are there?" Tarascus asked rhetorically, then continued before Murtagh could answer. "They have advantages in both experience and preparation. But ultimately what wins magic duels is raw power. No matter how cunningly you prepare your wards, or how efficient you make your spell, you must still have the strength to use it, to overcome your opponents defenses or to protect yourself."

"So what is there?" Tarascus continued, his eyes lighting up again. "You can artificially increase your strength or endurance. But that serves no purpose, it does not increase your power, simply how much strain you feel." Murtagh winced. He was far stronger and faster then he had any right to be thanks to Galbatorix's tampering. The changes still caught him off guard, as he underestimated his own speed.

"Or you can learn to take power from alternative sources." Tarascus concluded, then muttered "Du Brisingr rísa audr tauthr." The bowl left his hand and drifted over to Murtagh. The Rider caught it. The bowl was filled with a white, powdery chalk-like substance, that seemed to be burning quite easily, and the fire was so hot it burned even from two feet away.

"How much energy is in that?" Tarascus asked. Murtagh looked at him, uncertain what to say. "What does it matter?"

"Enough to kill a man? Several? One hundred? An entire army? How much energy?"

Murtagh stared at him. Reaching out with his mind, he tried to find some essence, something of the fire, the same way he had been taught to touch the minds of living things. But there was nothing. Not even the faintest trace. "I don't know." He admitted.

"You seem to be saying that a lot, don't you? There is rather less energy in there then you have in your body, but no matter how much you take, the fire will recover. Effectively infinite, given time, but that is useless to you, isn't it? A sword means nothing to someone who's never held one before, and less to someone who doesn't know how."

Murtagh bristled. "So how do I use it?" He growled, wanting nothing more then to smack the sickly mage across the room. Tarascus shook his head mockingly. "You don't. As it is it is totally useless to you. If any spell weaver could do this, we would all bestride the world like gods." Something in his tone suggested he might not be so adverse to the idea. Murtagh shuddered. Tarascus was a madman, one gifted with great power who was responsible for training anyone with the talent to be a spell-weaver for the kings armies. He was exactly the sort of man who should never have such power.

"It is useless as it is. So change it. Give it life." Dropping a hand into another of the clay bowls he removed a small seed. "Eldhimmner." He said curtly. At first nothing happened, then slowly a tiny green shoot sprung forth. Tarascus held it, totally emotionlessly, as the shot sprung up, then forked and stretched out two leaves. Murtagh watched mesmerized as in barely a minute the sickly mage was holding an orange tree almost as long as his arm. "Did I create the life, or did I simply stir what was already there?" He asked.

"Stir, I think." Murtagh said uncertainly, watching as the mage dropped his creation to the ground. "Is that so?" He said. "Well then, I simply used the same principal that The King is doing to your dragon. But then, if life is the only source of energy, how does it grow? Every day your well is replenished, is rest and food the source of magic?"

Murtagh shook his head. "I should think not." Tarascus continued, letting the plant drop to the floor. As he did so, it crumbled to ash. "So then, life is infinite, ever replenishing. Or is it just that through rest, through replenishing your life force it returns. Simply convert that energy in the fire into life force, as easily as changing water into wine. My master searched for the answer for years, and I am the only person he ever told how taught how to do it. The answer is simpler then he could have believed, " Tarascus said, a faraway look on his face. "It is something beyond most spellcasters. But you're strong enough to learn." He said, the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever given the young rider.

"So then it is possible to use other forms of energy for magic?" Murtagh asked, then pushed on. "Would be possible to convert energy from anywhere into power? Could you convert power from the sun?"

"Some travel might be involved." Tarascus replied sarcastically. "If you were powerful enough to send your mind so far adrift, then you would already be more then powerful enough to remake creation itself. Distance is a factor. It always is. Why else do you suppose Galbatorix has not killed all the elves, if he could simply sit down and summon his will? You are only human, start with that." Tarascus, said, gesturing at the fire. The dark wizard looked at him for a few more moments, then pulled himself up and returned to the desk, where he began scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment.

Murtagh glared at the flame, then tentatively opened his mind. The task he had been given seemed impossible, and had he been more widely schooled in magic's application he likely would not have even tried. "What should I say?" He asked, but Tarascus didn't so much as look up. At last Murtagh gathered his will and said in a clear voice "Unin Brinsingr Un Faefathan du raudhr Leben."

For a second the flame flared, but that was all. But Murtagh let out a slight gasp as he fell from his chair, unable to even raise his arm to ward himself as he hit the stones face first. Spot's danced before his eyes, and he felt his vision fading, thickening around the edges and blurring. The drop on his strength was immense, as though he had us tried to lift a mountain. He couldn't even find the energy to breathe.

A claw-like hand grasped his hair and forced him to look upright with a surprising amount of strength. "You are stronger." Tarascus hissed, his face alight with a terrible passion. "Work through the pain. Make yourself get up. Make yourself breathe. It's only a matter of will. Only a matter of…"

Murtagh came to, slumped back in his chair. Tarascus was watching him with a curious mixture of interest and disgust. "Nearly an hour wasted." He said as Murtagh opened his eyes. "You just gave in. You chose to die." Tarascus said condescendingly. "But the king wants you alive, so I saved you. How do you feel?"

Murtagh shrugged. He felt tired, but nowhere near as tired as he should. By all rights he should still be on the ground, unable to so much as move. "What you just tried to do was impossible. As I explained, the ancient language has clearly defined limits." Tarascus sneered. "To do the impossible, work without it. The magic is part of you. It is yours to shape, to control. There are no limits except those you place on yourself. Master it. Exist through it." He said, his eyes shining with a hellish light. "Again."

Murtagh stared at the bowl a moment then shook his head. He remembered all to well the feeling after his last try. "I can't do it." He said softly.

The words seemed to infuriate the magician. "Yes you can! You have no limits!" He snapped. Stopping for a second he breathed deeply, then continued, sounding far calmer. "If you do not learn this, you will die. Pure and simple. You consider yourself a swordsman. And so you strive to improve, to always be better then any opponent, because if you aren't, then he will cut you down. But there is a range of other factors. The length of your blade, sheer luck, conditions, height. In magic no such factors apply. You pit the strength of your will against each other, and whoever's faith is stronger wins. So you ensure you have more power to work with then the other person, or you die."

Murtagh was glaring at him, but Tarascus did not relent. "No matter how well you prepare your spell, all a magician has to do is say 'Atra Un Grammyre ' and a battle of wills will ensure. You yourself have some talent with the craft, and with the aid of your dragon and Elundari to overcome any one foe, with the exception of the king and myself, but you will not have enough power to defeat your brother and his elven friends. So you will either resign yourself to die in a week, or you will do what I tell you." Tarascus snarled.

Murtagh opened his mouth, but Tarascus made a cutting gesture with his hand. "Hljödhr maela." No noise came out when Murtagh tried to reply. He couldn't even move his jaw. Tarascus got up and began pacing, occasionally pausing to stare at Murtagh disdainfully. "To those willing to look, there are many means of strengthening yourself. Any magician can simply invest the power in gems, but that is not strengthening, merely moving it around. Some elementary Wizardry can be useful, I can give you potions that would make you quite formidable indeed, but they interfere with your thinking and leave you drained. I could teach you how to summon spirits, but I am unconvinced you would be able to control them in such a way to give yourself an advantage. And even the basics of Necromancy are beyond you. So I will teach you to harness other forces to use your magic, and how to manipulate it at an instinctive level, beyond the need for Grammyre. Nod if you understand." Murtagh nodded, although Tarascus may as well have been speaking another language for all the sense it made to the Rider.

"Good. Now, as I have already said, Grammyre simply gives you a way to manipulate forces using your own will and life-force. But there is another type of magic. Consider your dragon. He may effect the world at no cost to himself by using magic instinctively."

"Thorn is a dragon." Murtagh tried to say, but no sound passed through his lips.

"You'll have to speak up, I didn't quite catch that." The magician mocked, then resumed his tangent. "What is it that allows him to do this? Certainly nothing that can be determined through logical application of facts. They have no organ, no extremity for this. As I said before, magic is as intangible as smoke, surrounding us like air, but beyond our ability to touch. Yet dragons, in the right circumstances can. So it is simply a mindset, something in their souls that allows them to be a part of magic. But this is unique to neither dragons nor spirits. Shades can. Elves can, but with less competency. And you can, Rider. And it is time you learned. I have crafted the spell I just cast so it drains on your energy, not my own. If you are unable to speak you are unable to cast magic, and must end the spell some other way. Either free yourself from it, or never speak again." He executed a mocking half-bow, then left the room. "Call me when you're ready." He sneered as he vanished through the door, his limp painfully obvious.

Panic began to flutter in Murtaghs stomach. He quashed it angrily, but it refused to completely go away, threatening to flare up again. Murtagh's mind raced desperately, but he had no idea where to even begin. Gingerly he lowered the wards around his mind, ready to replace them at the first sign of attack, and sent out a slight mental probe. As he suspected, the wards around the room prevented any mental contact with the outside world. For a moment he considered trying to break through, but dismissed it. He was little more then a novice when it came to magic, despite all the secrets he'd been, and was still being, taught, while Tarascus was the kings favorite spellcaster, and knew things that Murtagh was still having trouble comprehending the basic descriptions of. With Thorns help he might have a chance, but he couldn't even contact the dragon.

Quickly he reviewed the lessons in magic he had received, but he couldn't think of anything that seemed so much as relevant. Everything the king and Tarascus had taught him involved the Ancient Language or Elundari. Thorn's capabilities were taught to Thorn by Shuriken, and Murtagh was told only a little and understood even less.

Magic had once seemed so simple. But the more he learned, the less he knew. He doubted anyone could even begin to know everything about it. Suddenly he stopped. Maybe that, then, was the secret. After all, Thorn claimed not to know how he used his power, claimed it just came when he needed it.

Inexorably, Murtagh brought his considerable will to bear against the spell. But it was like trying to sense fire, there was no pull, nothing to latch his will against. It was like punching the air, no resistance, nothing to feel. So what else? He thought back to before Thorn had hatched, back when the king had kept him in the court. He'd known the basics of magic, but couldn't use it. Magic wasn't simply an extension of will, there was also a feeling, a feeling he had the first time he used it, to save himself from drowning in the caverns under Urû'baen. A feeling he had all but forgotten as magic had become more familiar.

Time seemed to slow, and he felt a surge build up within him. Then he was free, and he felt like roaring in victory. He didn't feel tired. Quite the opposite, every nerve sang with life and power. The lethargy and fatigue in his heavy limbs was gone, replaced with a vibrant intensity, more energy then he'd ever felt, more then he knew his body could hold. When Tarascus found him passed out half an hour later, Murtagh still had a wide smile on his lips.

**Hope you enjoyed that. As usual I'm begging you to review. Even if it's just a few words of encouragement, or a minor point of contrition. Plus, you know, encourages me to write.**


	10. Whispers in the Dark

**Don't own Inheritance.**

Chapter 9

The citadel towered above Urû'baen, like a great lance thrust up to scrape against the sky by a titan in the world's creation. Made of black stone in ages past before the time of men, or even elves, it dominated the landscape for miles around, atop the cities great cliffs so that it could be seen on the Horizon from as far as The Spine.

It had been the seat of the kings of humanity since they first settled in Alagaësia. It had always been dark, Made of dark granite, but once the kings had tried to disguise this fact, hanging colorful pendants and banners, and growing flower gardens around the walls. Once. But Galbatorix didn't see the need. Power wasn't something you had to flaunt, honor and justice weren't won with pretty flags, and beauty was relative. To him, the austere walls and Spartan, functionality of the place was far more beautiful then what the other kings had done. And who would argue with him?

If the structures rulers occupy reflect their regard for the ruled, then the fortress spoke volumes. It's entryways were heavily guarded, and it's gates were locked with heavy iron portcullises. Lookouts were stationed on it's towers, and it was garrisoned extensively, by the Domiavard as well as conventional soldiers. It appeared a dark, grim place, every inch harder then the cliffs it was built on.

Beneath the citadel was a maze of passageways and tunnels, underground caverns and rooms that had never seen the sun, the work of thousands of years of excavating the stone bedrock. They stretched beneath the entire city, and perhaps one could walk among them forever, never again finding the way to the surface.

Murtagh's eyes had not adjusted to the darkness. He didn't know if this was a lesson or something else, but Galbatorix had ordered him to follow, and so he did, groping ineffectually and stumbling in the murk. The weak, cold light the lantern Halec was holding gave was enough to ensure you did not bump into walls, but details were lost on him, blurring into indistinct shapes, and he could barely make out the lean figure of the king ahead.

Somehow Galbtorix picked his way through the maze of tunnels and passages with unerring skill, never so much as making a misstep or wrong turn. Murtagh couldn't tell how deep they were or which way they were going, and wards built into the walls by a thousand paranoid rulers meant he couldn't sense anything with his mind. He would be surprised if he could even use magic.

They might have been walking an hour or an eternity, but all Murtagh could ascertain was that they seemed to have been walking a lot further then would take them to the dragonhold. He wanted to ask, where they were going but whenever he worked up the courage to ask he would catch a glimpse of the King's steely countenance and keep quiet.

At first they'd been cells, and rooms, occasionally cages, and those terrible dark robed figures who slinked around, conducting their vile trade, but then the had come to a long passage that branched off into a new one every dozen steps, empty and featureless, that had seemed to stretch forever.

The passages were a mix of cut passages and unworked stone that glistened with damp. Passages ended abruptly or bled into each other, and seemed to follow no ryme, or reason. Murtagh knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he was alone he'd never find his way back.

At last they stopped and walked into a room, it took a moment for Murtagh's eyes to adjust to the bright light but when he did he felt nauseous.

The room was long, quite narrow, and simply laid out, illuminated by a couple of wall mounted brands. There was a central aisle, with cages on either side. Not cells, as one might expect, but what were essentially pens, fashioned from metal bars. They were too low for their occupants to stand, and their floor was covered with grubby looking straw, thick with lice and other parasites. Each contained the still breathing remains of a prisoner in various states of abuse, and the smell of the place was hideous.

Galbatorix strode past without so much as passing a glance at them, his face a mask of flesh and bone. Halec went with him, not seeming to care about the people, caged in like animals and tortured. Several of them were cradling stumps instead of limbs, had been blinded or forcibly muted. Some had been branded with the traitors mark, or other, equally painful looking disfigurements. One towards the end had been castrated, blinded and lost his feet and his hands.

There was a bitter taste in Murtag's mouth. Morbid curiosity made him wonder what they had done that had led to such inhuman treatment. They had been made into something less then animals, tortured for simply the sake of torture. Were they rebels, simply people the king didn't like, political opponents, criminals or nothing but people who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why had the king ordered this? Simple cruelty? Galbatorix didn't seem to delight in their suffering, but neither did he feel any empathy, simply ignoring them as though they weren't there.

Making his way rather slower then the other two, Murtagh tried not to see the prisoners on either side of him. He wished he could block them out like the king seemed too, but he was horribly aware of every figure he passed. They did not cry out, or even beg, but looked at him with hollow, dead eyes of those who had lost all hope, in utter silence. Murtagh doubted they even saw him.

The door at the end of the room was unlocked, and Halec was searching for the correct key on a great ring when Murtagh caught up. Galbatorix was pacing patiently, his eyes fixed on the door, occasionally passing over the prisoners as though he didn't see anything, or absent-mindedly adjusting his cloak.

With a triumphant noise, Halec found the correct key, and the incessant jangling of the keys sliding into each other stopped. Flexing his thick shoulder against the door, he braced his legs and pushed. The door creaked open to reveal another corridor, and the two vanished into it, Halec allowing Galbatorix to take the lead. Murtagh swallowed, then followed behind, wishing he could have just stayed in bed, or, failing that, stayed with Tarrascus and continued his lesson. Even his particular brand of insanity would be preferable to this mind-numbing exposure to the King's cruelty.

The Tunnel curved, and twisted, and soon Murtagh had lost sight of them and was trudging forward alone. It's particular shape distorted sounds, so that Murtagh could barely hear them when they were a few steps ahead.

The tunnel widened, and Murtagh started as he realized how far behind he'd dropped. Hurrying ahead, he shivered, as he realized how cold the tunnel was getting. He hurried onwards, totally alone, until he heard the faint scrape of a boot against stone. Stopping and sinking into a fighters crouch he stared around, trying to see what had moved. But there was nothing but the murk.

Sighing, already half convinced he had imagined it, he ran his hand through his hair (which he absentmindedly noticed was clammy with perspiration despite the cold), and turned to continue forward.

Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding along, a man's shape in mottled grays and a shapeless cloak, barely more than a vague hint of texture in the murk…

The figure of a tall, lean man peeled back the hood of his cloak and stopped midstep. He turned and stared directly at the young Rider, his maroon hair in thick braids, his mouth open to reveal serrated, triangular teeth. But that alone wasn't what made Murtagh whimper. The look the stranger gave sent Murtagh a shiver soul deep. It was it's eyes, they were ancient, knowing and so, so cold. They stripped away the layers of lies and identity and delved deep into the core of who he was. They _knew_ him.

The stranger held his gaze for another moment, then turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, into the eternal night, without saying a word. It was a long time before Murtagh found it within himself to move.

When he caught up, the king took in his ashen face and shook his head. "I see you met Zakath. He has that effect on most people." His voice was cold, but seemed almost amused. "He's a shade." He continued, before Murtagh could ask "And very good at what he does.

"And what does he do?"

"Kill people." Halec answered, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him wince.

Galbatorix was already moving ahead again, and just when Murtagh was beginning to think they would be walking forever, they stopped.

"Here." Galbatorix said.

At first, Murtagh didn't know what he meant, then he noticed a slight indent in the worked stone. Reaching out to touch the wall with his fingertips, he felt a ridge. Then he realized it was a disguised doorframe, hidden in shadow.

Halec elbowed him aside, slipped his hand along the frame and pushed. There was a harsh, grating sound, then a light. They were looking along yet another tunnel. It was softly lit by fat candles set in recesses, that made Murtagh's eyes itch uncomfortably as they adjusted to the new atmosphere. The tunnel ended in a series of metal rungs that climbed to a trapdoor.

Halec went first, and lifted the hatch, followed by the King, and then Murtagh, far less confident then the other two.

A man was manacled to the wall, suspended by his arms. He was unconscious, which was probably for the best. Nearby stood a brazier steeped with glowing coals. Cruel-looking irons were heating in it, a few already cherry red. Other tools of the torturers trade were laid out on a gore splattered bench, that made Murtagh feel weak just to look at. All serrated edges and barbs, tools designed not only to cause pain, but to permanently disfigure.

Murtagh shuddered at the thought. He'd killed, but not like this. Never like this.

A man was standing in the corner, his back to the new arrivals. He turned slowly as they came up the ladder, and Murtagh realized he was cleaning his knuckles with a piece of cloth. The man was short, heavyset, but powerfully built. He wore the traditional black leather garb of a torturer, complete with the integral skullcap and eyemask. His chest was bare and sheened with sweat from his labors. He bowed awkwardly when he spotted the king, but Galbaorix didn't seem to notice.

Moving across the room in a few, quick, strides, he took the prisoners chin in his and forced him to look at him. When he didn't react Galbatorix closed his eyes and muttered something. Abruptly his eyes blinked blearily open.

"Please…" The man choked out desperately. His voice hoarse and soft, pathetically weak. Galbatorix didn't even seem to hear him, simply dispassionately examining him as though looking over a slab of meat.

"Do you know why I am doing this, Tabar?" He asked softly.

Murtagh started as he realized the identity of the prisoner. He had met Marcus Tabar, the governer of Dras-Leona, and found it impossible to reconcile the image of the proud, haughty man with the defeated shell that hung before him. He remembered what the King had said a week ago, and shuddered. He supposed he should feel satisfied, knowing a monster was being killed, but if anything he felt worse. This was not justice.

The twisted mockery of a man was stuttering something, trying desperately to form words, but Galbatorix shook his head.

"You are here because you are a monster who cannot control his urges. All men are base, but most learn to restrain themselves. But you, even basic control is beyond you. You're not part of the solution Marcus, you are the very thing I hate about humanity. You are weak."

Marcus tried to reply, tried to form some sound, but Galbatorix shook his head. "Goodbye, Tabar." He said coldly, and with an easy, flowing movement, he drew his sword.

The sword was of medium length, made in the straight bladed, single-edged, archaic style of the hill tribes on the Empires northern borders. At first glance it was a simple thing, while the scabbard was white calfskin and gold, the blade was plain and devoid of ornamentation. However, one who looked closely would change their assessment.

The pommel was a large white diamond, glistening and many faceted, weighted with white gold to counter-balance the weight of the blade. The grip was virgin leather, unstained by sweat or blood, and there were ripples in the smoky dark steel where the metal had been folded on itself again and again, an impossible amount of times. The actual edge was separate, and so sharp it could cut a falling leaf in twain, made of another material then the rest of the sword.

The blade was a work of art, beyond the skill of even the greatest elven smiths of the age to make, or even understand how to make.

Galbatorix did not flourish it. He knew what a sword was for, and it was not for flourishing. Instead he drew it back, and drove it through the lord and into the wall up to the hilt. There was a spray of blood, and the body convulsed a few times before hanging limp, the light having fled his eyes. The nobleman didn't scream. He didn't even have the strength left to do so.

Galbatorix removed the sword, and gave it a hard flick, red droplets flying off it in a wide arc, then wiped it clean on an already bloody cloth. When he was satisfied he replaced it in its sheath and turned to Murtagh. "That is how we deal with traitors in the Empire. People who do not give our cause it's loyalty, and instead seek their own profit at the expense of others." His intent was plain. Murtagh swallowed and nodded, trying to quell the rising bile in his throat.

Galbatorix cocked his head. "You have something to say, Murtagh?"

Murtagh opened his mouth, and then closed it. Just the same, Galbatorix seemed to understand.

"You think me brutal? Cruel? Callous? Sometimes I think it would be easier to give up on you then educate you Murtagh. I do not hide behind paid executioners. I do not order death lightly. When I do, I make myself feel it. I have killed. In my life my sword has known little rest. And I have never forgotten what death is. I will never let myself. If you can't watch the light leave a mans eyes, feel him as he dies, see his fear, his desperation, then maybe he doesn't deserve to. Remember that. Death is not something I enjoy. But I have been given power."

Murtagh sneered, recovering his composure. "He wasn't a good man. But you made him what he is, then when he wasn't useful you tortured him and killed him. We're all just pawns to you, aren't we? We're not even people."

"Do you think I like this?" Galbatorix said softly. Murtagh swallowed, he'd gone quiet, that was usually a bad sign. "I never wanted the Empire. All I wanted was vengeance, and justice. And I got it. But someone had to pick it up, and I did. But once you do, you can never put it back down. I hate this whole country. I hate every inch of it. My very soul screams to leave and go back North, back to Inzilbêth. My homeland. My heartland. But I can't. I never will be able to." He slammed his fist into the stone wall, in a frightening act of passion, and his dark eyes blazed. Dust trickled down from the ceiling, and Halec and the torturer backed away slowly, afraid to draw his attention.

"I killed the riders. All of them. And if you knew them as I did, remember them as I can you would not be so quick to judge me for that. And I threw King Argenost onto the street and watched the people tear him apart. And then who was left to rule, but I? Should I entrust it to someone else? Should I leave it to tear itself apart? No. I could never be that weak. So here I am, after all this time, a leftover from that sad page in history. And here I will be until I die."

"Once I could call myself honourable with a straight face. I could say I was a good man, that I did what was right." He roared. "But I have killed that part of myself, for the sake of all the people who live in this Empire, knowing they would hate me for it! And who are you presume to judge me?"

Murtagh swallowed, waiting for the inevitable punishment, but it didn't come. Instead Galbatorix grabbed him with an arm like a steel cable, and forced him to look at Tabar's remains.

"I imprisoned him at my own will. And why shouldn't I? I know everyone's guilt or innocence at a glance. I can see their darkest secrets, what they hide, what they pray no one will ever know. I can tell right away. Why give them a trial? I already know the truth. Who is better qualified then me?"

Murtagh was swallowing nervously, but Galbatorix didn't let go. "See him? Do you? Do you see the governor of Dras-Leona, or just a corpse? Well let me tell you what I see. I see a man who was very, very fond of children. Loved them in fact. Had a few dozen in his castle. And he had things in his tower that made all of these toys look like nothing. Perhaps you'd be interested in the contents of the box we found under his bed. What did they do? What did the children do to deserve that?"

Murtagh opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Some people cannot be saved. No redemption, no change of heart. Some people are incorrigible monsters. And the rest are just monsters who have trained ourselves not to show it." Galbatorix growled, his voice beginning to loose its ferocity but retaining a hard edge.

"See Ernst over there?" He asked, gesturing to the torturer, who backed away when he did. "I know all about him. He took this job not because it's a job, or noble reasons about wanting the guilty to suffer, no, he took it because he likes hurting them. Doesn't matter to him what they did or who they are, he likes the power that comes with making others suffer. He knows the breaking strain of bones, tendons, skin. He knows exactly how far he can push them. And he loves it. If there was any justice, he'd be hanging up next to Marcus. But there isn't, because monsters are more useful then heroes, so he gets to do what he loves every day."

Galbatorix turned and pointed at Halec, who closed his eyes. "Do you know, he might have a son. Or a daughter. I say might, because he left the mother, his wife, a maid in Drakenmoor castle, when he deserted the lords guard. He's never tried to find her, he left her alone, bearing his child, all because he could get slightly better pay working here." Halec winced, but didn't seem overly bothered. Murtagh suspected it was mostly for their benefit. "Funny, he's killed and murdered countless others, several who were pleading or totally innocent, or children, and that's the only thing he feels any guilt for."

Then Galbatorix fixed his terrible stare on Murtagh, and the Rider felt his knees go weak. It was the shade, all over again, only this time it was not the unknown that frightened him, but a very real threat.

"Shall I tell you about yourself, Murtagh?" Galbatorix said quietly. "Do you want me to tell you all the dirty little things you've done?"

Murtagh desperately shook his head.

Galbatorix seemed satisfied. "I thought myself honourable once. Good and noble. But there is no honour, just like there is no good, or gods. There is no justice but the justice we take. There is no greater purpose but the one we build for ourselves. If you're unable to defend yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Steel and strong arms rule this world, nothing else. I do what I think is right, but only because I don't let anyone else tell me different, and kill anyone who disagrees. I rule because I don't let myself have any enemies, and I am ruthless with the ones I get. I rule because I am stronger then anyone else. Don't ever believe any different." With that he swept past, gesturing to Murtagh to follow. "Now come with me, and we'll complete the nights work. Grow up, and see the world for what it is. And if you ever think about betraying me again, I'll give you Marcus's place."

**Hope you enjoyed that. Please Review.**


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